


a small step and a giant leap

by Engineer104



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: (that's a tag??), Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Angels, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blood and Injury, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Immortality, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Violence, Slow Burn, Wingfic, World War II, in one chapter anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-04-22 17:06:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14313285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Engineer104/pseuds/Engineer104
Summary: Lance wakes when he shouldn’t to an angel of death standing over him.It’s a first, but it won’t be the last.





	1. a close encounter

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is almost complete SO i figured i'd start posting because i'm excited!! but also nervous because _yikes_
> 
> Inspired by [this post](https://sp4c3-0ddity.tumblr.com/post/172435053778/writing-prompt-s-youre-an-immortal-your) but quickly went off the rails
> 
> the timeline is weird and anachronisms abound!! (probably, i did do SOME research). but if you spot them, please don’t point them out; i think i’d rather live in bliss…
> 
> please suspend your disbelief at the door. so long as it makes sense within the context of the fic it works for me
> 
> my thanks to [rueitae](https://rueitae.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing and just overall being helpful
> 
> ~~i promise my notes on following chapters won't be nearly as long~~

It surprises Lance when he wakes in the dark, surrounded by the moans and groans of the injured and dying. But his eyes steadily adjust to the darkness, a distant oil lamp at the end of the makeshift ward enough to see a pale, round face frowning at him.

“Am I dead?” he asks. “Are you an angel?”

The boy - or round-faced young man - sighs. And when Lance finally registers that he wears the uniform of a battlefield medic, he laughs around the lump in his throat.

“Of course I live,” Lance says. “I’m relieved heaven doesn’t look like a war zone, except I didn’t imagine a hospital either.”

The boy pushes round glasses up the bridge of his nose and consults a clipboard. “No, you’re not dead, but…” He glances around shiftily - Lance wonders if he’s even allowed here - and rests the back of a small, gentle hand on his forehead.

“You look a little young to be at war,” Lance observes with a raised eyebrow. He shifts on his cot, wincing at the tug of bandages on his skin…and unsure of the absence of pain. “What happened to me?”

The medic looks back at him, eyes wide as if startled, as if he forgot Lance is there. “I…you don’t remember?”

Lance shakes his head. “Nope. One minute my company was trekking through the trees, and the next I’m waking up here in a bed.” He puts a hand to his abdomen. “I got injured?”

The boy perches his elbows on the cot, leaning slightly. “This is a first for me,” he says.

“What is? Seeing a soldier recover from an attack he can’t remember?” Lance laughs and adds, “I hope I never remember.”

“No, it’s…well, to answer your second question…yes.”

Lance hums and examines his fingernails. “Yes what?”

The boy bites his lip and, lowering his voice, says, “I’m an angel, specifically of death.”

Lance laughs. “Is that what they call the medics now? That’s a pretty good nickname; you should make it official.”

The boy growls in frustration and leans towards him, his warm, eerily sweet-smelling breath falling on Lance’s face. “Lance, keep your voice down.”

Lance tries to inch away from him, unnerved by his intensity as his stomach twists into knots. “I feel like you have an edge on me, so can I at least have your name?”

The boy-medic stares at him, then steps away. “You can call me Pidge.”

Lance exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Weird name, but I like it.”

“Thanks, but that’s not relevant.” He breathes deeply, eyes pinched shut, and when he opens them he says, “That explosion should’ve killed you.”

“Yeah, I’m surpr—wait, _explosion_?” Lance’s eyes bug out of his skull when Pidge’s words register. “What explosion?”

Pidge taps the clipboard balanced on his arm. “Your company would’ve walked into an ambush if you hadn’t stepped in the path of the first bomb. Thanks to you, they were able to retreat.”

“Oh.” Lance scratches his head, struggling to remember, but it’s still so _fuzzy_.

“And perhaps as a result…well, I suppose I should congratulate you, Lance.”

“On surviving an explosion?” He grins and says, “Please, it’s not that hard.”

Pidge rolls his eyes. “As a gift, you’ve even been healed of scars.” He picks up the edge of Lance’s blanket and peeks under, but before Lance can react, he drops the blanket, the slightest flush on his pale cheeks, and says, “Even your belly button is gone.”

Lance struggles to process this and reaches for his belly button - or where it should be. “Oh,” he says hollowly. “That will be hard to explain.”

“Fair warning,” Pidge then says. “You _can_ still get injured.”

“Well, of course, but—wait. Pidge, what _exactly_ did you do to me?” He stares at him, meeting round brown eyes and holding his breath.

The oil lamp in the corner dies, plunging them into darkness.

Pidge inhales and, in a low voice that seems to carry in the silence, says, “Your death order was rescinded for reasons I can’t glean. Until further notice, you’re immortal.”

“You’re…joking, Pidge.” Lance laughs, but it dies at the sight of Pidge’s small, almost apologetic smile. “I didn’t think medics could joke like that. Save a man’s life and tell him he’s immortal.” He pats Pidge’s arm. “Way to not claim any responsibility.”

Pidge scowls and says, “I already told you, Lance. I’m not a medic; I’m an angel of death.” He turns around, back to Lance. “Now go back to sleep. You’re going to need it.”

Lance rubs his face disbelievingly, but when he pulls his hands away, Pidge is gone, no trace of him other than a vague sweet scent that lingers in the air.


	2. weighted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the return from a war

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~what was this fic about again~~
> 
> **warning** for an incident of (nonfatal) drowning

Lance struggles to adjust when he returns home. When his mother hugs and kisses him and his elderly father claps him on the back and tells him how proud they are of him, he’s warm and content and _happy_ , wondering how he could ever have left. But days later, after waking from yet another nightmare, he sits on the porch and watches the sun rise over the trees, a gentle, salty breeze stirring their leaves.

Lance can’t remember the explosion that should’ve killed him, but he dreams about it every night. There are subtle differences each time though.

Sometimes it blows an arm off, and Lance wakes up just to check his shoulder has something attached to it. Sometimes it takes an eye, or a leg, or leaves a livid scar across the bridge of his nose that he fears will stare at him when he looks in the mirror. Sometimes his whole company perishes and he’s the lone survivor.

That’s the waking nightmare too.

Lance spends much of his first month home pondering immortality, whether at home or wandering around the beach, left almost empty this time of year. It weighs heavily on him, and he’s not sure what it means, but he wants - he _needs_ \- to tell someone before it sinks a hole through his heart.

“Mami, I have to tell you something.”

Lance approaches his mother while she’s chopping vegetables for dinner. When she smiles at him encouragingly, glancing up from the cutting board, he opens his mouth to speak, but the words catch in his throat. He doesn’t know why they won’t come, why he can’t even tug up his shirt and show her that he’s missing a belly button, but then he smiles and says, “I’m happy to be home.”

She blinks at him, frowning. “I’m happy to hear that, mijo,” she says, “but are you sure that’s all?”

“No,” Lance admits, but he lies, “I want to start working again. No more fighting for me.”

His mother pats his cheek, and when she accepts his words he exhales a sigh of relief.

Lance works on his brother’s dairy farm, further inland from his parents’ coastal home, but one day a week he returns and visits the beach of his childhood.

He finds himself outside on a cloudy day, with no one around to see him. It gives him a chance to unwind, to enjoy the sand and the waves. A part of him wants to go and grab his young nephew, but another is too lazy just floating on his back.

Warm water fills Lance’s ears, drowning out any other sounds, and seagulls glide on the air above him. Content, he closes his eyes, and this time nothing unpleasant meets him when he sleeps.

The saltwater filling his nose wakes him, and he thrashes in the waves, kicking for the ocean floor or the beach. But he opens his eyes to a dim gray world.

Lance swims up, propelling himself with his arms, and when he breaks the surface he gasps for air. It fills his lungs quickly, but he coughs up water that burns through his irritated throat. He scans his surroundings, and when he finds the beach he swims towards it, eager for his feet to be on solid ground.

It’s only when he collapses, exhausted, on the sand that he realizes he should’ve drowned.

“Maybe immortality won’t be so bad,” Lance mutters. He pushes hair out of his face and rolls onto his back, staring up at the cloudy sky and waiting for the strength to return to his limbs.

Lance doesn’t know that he’s fallen asleep again until a seagull pecks his arm. He yelps and bolts upright, startling the bird into flight, and rubs the red mark while cursing it under his breath.

“If you’re still immortal, then why are you on my list?”

The familiar voice - one he convinced himself he imagined - startles him. He turns his head to see Pidge approaching him, barefoot and wearing a…green sun dress.

Lance stands, making a pitiful attempt to brush wet sand off his swimsuit, and clears his throat. “I don’t know,” he says, “but I’m not complaining about seeing a friendly face rather than, you know, drowning.”

Pidge crosses his arms, scrutinizing him. “Your file claims that you’re a strong swimmer and unlikely to meet your end by drowning.”

“My _file_?” Lance states, eyes wide.

“Yes, we have files,” Pidge tells him with a shrug, as if that’s the most _obvious_ thing in the world. “It’s constantly updated, of course, and color-coded because we’re not animals.”

“No,” Lance deadpans, “you’re _angels_.”

Once upon a time, Lance might’ve said that to a girl, a compliment meant to charm, but now he says it with incredulity. Pidge is a Catholic daydream come to life, with round cheeks that make him look cherubic.

Lance then blurts, “Do all angels of death have faces like yours?”

Pidge blinks at him and asks, “What do you mean?”

Heat rushes to his cheeks, but he rushes to clarify, “You know… _round_ ones.” He rings his own face with his hands, indicating his jawline.

“Not necessarily?” Pidge says with a slight frown. “This is just how my face is.” He rests a hand on his cheek, suddenly looking self-conscious.

“There’s nothing wrong with a round face!” Lance quickly reassures him. “Look at my niece: her face is very round. And cute!”

Pidge stares at him blankly, shifting his feet in the sand…without leaving footprints.

Lance wonders if, this time, he’ll see the instant he disappears, but now the thought makes his heart sink and chest tighten. “Pidge, I—”

He’s not sure what he’s going to say, what he _wants_ to say, so a part of him is grateful when Pidge interrupts, “I’m wasting my time here.”

“Wait, hold on a minute, man!” Lance calls out when Pidge turns away. “I…I have questions about this immortality thing I didn’t get to ask you last time.” He smirks, internally congratulating himself on the excuse.

And it’s _true_ , he realizes. Immortality is a strange thing, barely a concept he can wrap his head around as young as he still is, and Pidge is the only one that can answer anything he might ask.

Pidge looks back at him and confesses, “I’m a girl.”

Lance gapes at him - at _her_ \- and takes a long moment, silent except for the steady crashing of waves behind him, to recover. “Uh…”

Pidge sways, the fabric of her dress moving with her. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“The first time I saw you,” Lance says, throwing his hands into the air, “you were dressed like a battlefield medic.”

“Well, angels are fluid at best, but…I’m usually a girl.” Pidge shrugs and pushes her glasses up her nose.

“ _Usually_?” Lance sputters.

Pidge raises an eyebrow at him, unamused and even annoyed. “So…?”

“So what?”

“What are your questions?” She checks a clipboard tucked under her arm - one Lance could’ve sworn wasn’t there seconds ago - and says, “I have some time.”

Lance blinks at her, suddenly at a loss for words, but then asks, “Why am _I_ immortal?”

“I don’t know,” Pidge admits. “I’m just here to collect people’s souls, Lance.”

“But haven’t you ever wondered?” He waves at the beach, empty except for the two of them. “About anything, really.”

“I have,” she concedes with a hesitant nod, “but…” She inhales sharply - is that the first time he’s seen her _breathe_? - and says, “I’ve asked too many questions.”

Lance frowns. “What happens if you do that?”

Pidge’s grip on the clipboard tightens, knuckles turning white. “It’s not pleasant to talk about,” she says, eyes sharp on his face, “and not something to speak of with a near stranger.”

Lance, though stunned, forces himself to laugh. “You have my ‘file’,” he points out. “You probably know more about me than my own mother does.”

Pidge shifts her feet and doesn’t stir up sand. “Maybe,” she says, “but your file is just a collection of facts. They’re a good overview, but they’re not you. And I don’t feel close enough to you to tell you things about myself best left private.”

The torrent of words take Lance aback. “You…don’t have to,” he says reluctantly. “But…what am I supposed to do since I’m immortal?”

Pidge taps the clipboard against her thigh. “Whatever you want, I guess. Devote yourself to a cause, research something that can take years to discover, live life as you would if you _are_ going to die soon.” She rolls her eyes and adds, “There’s no instruction manual like you would get with an automobile. Just…don’t tell anyone.”

“No one would believe me,” Lance says with a shrug.

Pidge sighs, her eyes slipping closed, and admits, “I’m sorry, Lance. I don’t have any advice for you, because I don’t have experience with humans, mortal or not.”

“But aren’t _you_ immortal too?” Lance wonders. “You’re an angel.”

“I’m young,” Pidge says, shooting him a small smile, “at least by angel standards, and humans gaining immortality is rare. And I’ve asked”—at Lance’s wide-eyed surprise she held up a hand, keeping him from interrupting—”but I’m _still_ one of the few angels of death that’s witnessed something like this.”

“So…I’m special.” The thought both warms and frightens him. His heart beats a little faster, as if in anticipation, and though he’s had time to mull this over - to note that at least he won’t get wrinkles - it’s the first time he considers how _alone_ this makes him.

“You’re very special.”

Pidge says it so nonchalantly, without a hint of a smile, but hearing it makes heat rush to his face. He tries to dismiss it, waving a hand, and says, “You don’t have to tell me.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I’m just agreeing with you.”

Lance laughs, amused by her reaction. “Well, I’m happy to hear you think so too.”

Pidge snorts, but when she bites her lip Lance can tell she’s fighting a smile.

The sky clears, clouds receding and exposing a livid red sky as sunset approaches. Lance glances at Pidge and nods towards the sun beginning to sink into the sea.

“Care to watch it with me?” he asks.

Pidge says, “It’s not like I haven’t seen many before. And a billion sunsets happen every day.”

Lance blinks, but before he can ask her what she means by that, she vanishes.

He stares at the spot where Pidge stood, unsure if he even saw the moment in which she disappeared. Did it happen as he blinked?

Was she even _here_?

She left no sign behind, not even a scent or a footprint in the sand. The beach is empty again, except for him and the jellyfish that the current washes onto the shore. And his heart sinks, lonely though he knows a home full of family that loves him waits for him less than a mile away. But he closes his eyes and inhales.

This time he only smells salt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i haven't finished writing the last chapter yet, between focusing on my Pidge Big Bang fic (complete, now editing and posting in just three days jaidjfapijspdf) and getting distracted by a couple other new (i need to stop doing that) WIPs, among Real Life things, BUT i will be able to work on it soon, on top of which i'm planning to actually _stagger_ releases of chapters for this fic (which i almost never do ha) so it will not be coming out as quickly as previous multichapter fic i've written (and completed) have
> 
> any and all comments and kudos, in the meanwhile, are very encouraging and appreciated, here or on [tumblr](https://sp4c3-0ddity.tumblr.com/). and thank you for reading!!


	3. down to earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how does one get the attention of an angel of death?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning** for fake attempted suicide. also, i promise, it's _fake_

His mother notices first, that Lance never sickens or seems to age. She runs her fingers through his hair, chuckling, and says, “You take after my papi more than yours.”

Lance smiles and tells her, “I’m glad. The ladies love a man who won’t go bald.”

She frowns at him. “And when will you bring home one of these ladies you so often mention, Lance?”

His hand tightens around hers. “Well, I met a girl named Jenny on the beach last week. An American tourist.”

His mother raises an eyebrow at him. “And how old do you think this Jenny is?”

“At least twenty,” Lance grumbles, rolling his eyes. He’s in his thirties now, but except for a different haircut and an experimental beard that he’s contemplating shaving off, he looks exactly the same as he did at twenty-one.

“Then she’s too young for you,” his mother complains. “Too young to settle down.”

 _Maybe I don’t want to settle down,_ he wants to say, not when he has a whole long and so far _limitless_ life ahead of him.

(It’s starting to feel stifling, this life he’s made for himself near his family. There has to be more to life than milking cows…)

Instead Lance retorts, “Weren’t you younger than that when you married Papi?”

She laughs, a harsh sound full of phlegm that sets off her cough. Lance passes her a tissue, and when the cough abates, she says, “Maybe I was, and maybe I regret it.”

Lance gapes at her. “Do you, Mami?”

She pats his cheek and snorts. “Of course not,” she says, “but I know women that do. Don’t rush life, Lance.”

“And yet you’re telling me you want me to get married?”

“I want you to be happy,” his mother argues. “And if that includes marriage, and children, then so be it, but…” She grimaces. “I don’t want you to be one of those men who spends his life chasing women rather than settling down, even if that _is_ what makes you happy.” She smacks the back of his neck, like she used to when he was a misbehaving child, but lighter, almost teasing.

Lance laughs and says, “Believe me, Mami, I don’t want to be.”

“Then _act_ like it,” she retorts. “Make me proud and let me see you married, maybe with a baby on the way, before I die.”

Lance doesn’t grimace, but it’s a very close thing. He doesn’t comment on the impossible time line, on his mother’s illness and on the lack of romance in his life. He’s met women, of course, and was even engaged once, but success has always been limited.

“I’ll try, Mami,” he promises, because that’s all he can do.

“You’re a good boy, Lance,” she says, smiling and squeezing his hand. She runs her hand through his hair again and pulls his head towards her to kiss his forehead. “But I know you can do better.”

Lance can’t bring himself to ask her what she means. 

* * *

The sun shines at its peak when Lance stands at the edge of a cliff, staring down into a canyon. His heart is heavy and his chest is tight, but his eyes are the driest they’ve been in the last few days.

The day is beautiful, he thinks, warm and with fresh growth on the trees. The world springs to life around him, but grief still fills him, threatening to drag him down.

Distantly he remembers his physics lessons in school, before he became a soldier. Gravity pulls mass to the center, and Lance can imagine himself sinking through the ground towards the earth’s core.

He’s always been rather dramatic.

The easiest thing, he thinks, would be to fall through the air and collide with the ground below in the canyon. All he would have to do is step over the edge…but it wouldn’t end, not for him.

Lance laughs without humor. He doesn’t want it to end, not really, but sometimes he thinks he wants that option. If his family can die - if his _mother_ can die - then why can’t he too?

Lance steps away from the edge…and right into Pidge.

His heart nearly stops when he freezes in shock. Then she stumbles backwards with a yelp, startled, and he unfreezes to catch her arms and hold her upright. He’s surprised to find that he can, that her skin is soft but _real_.

(Since he last saw her, he’d half-convinced himself that she wasn’t.)

“What are you doing here?” he asks her once he recovers from his shock.

Pidge wrenches her arms from his grip. “What am _I_ doing here?” she echoes, scowling at him. She straightens her glasses, crooked from her collision, and demands, “What are _you_ doing here?”

Lance blinks at her until he recalls his reason for standing on a precipice. “I…it’s not what you think.”

“Oh, isn’t it?” Pidge crosses her arms. “Then please, _explain_ , because though you may be immortal and that fall won’t kill you, it sure as hell will _crush_ you.”

Lance stares at her, shocked by her vehemence and…momentarily distracted. “Wait, Pidge, is hell real?”

“W-what?” she stutters. Her expression softens in surprise at the change in subject. “I-I believe so.”

“You _believe_ so?” Lance retorts incredulously.

Pidge crosses her arms and glares at the ground. “They’re barring me from finding out.”

“What did you—”

“Look, it doesn’t matter what _I_ did,” Pidge cuts him off, “because I’m here to talk about what _you_ did.”

“What?” Lance grumbles, raising an eyebrow at her. “Is it like last time and there’s an _error_ in my file?”

Pidge shakes her head and says, “Nothing like that."

“Then why—”

“Still, doesn’t matter,” she says, holding a hand up. “Just—”

“What happened to my mother?” Lance wonders, grabbing her shoulders.

“I don’t know,” Pidge says.

“Pidge—”

“Lance, I’m not the one who collected her soul, I’m—” She frowns, then says, “Is she why you were about to throw yourself off a cliff?”

Lance throws his hands up, frustrated. “I wasn’t going to throw myself off a cliff!”

“Then what were you doing standing at the edge of one?” Pidge asks, her hands resting on her hips. “Because it looked an awful lot like you were.”

“I was _considering_ it,” Lance tells her. He paces, making sure to stay clear of the edge if only to appease her, and, when he catches sight of her face again twisting in anger, he hurriedly adds, “Not seriously.”

“Then why, Lance?”

“Why do you even care?” he wonders, but this one he’s curious about rather than just angry. He hasn’t seen Pidge in over a decade, long enough that he questioned her existence and tried to forget it.

Like him, she looks no older than the last time on the beach, though her brown hair is longer, brushing her bare shoulders.

(Lance can’t help wondering if all ‘female’ angels of death wear sleeveless dresses when reaping souls.)

Pidge shrugs and doesn’t meet his eyes.

Lance sighs. “So…I guess when you leave me here I won’t see you again for another ten years or longer?”

Her gaze flicks up to his face before drifting away again, staring past him towards the open air beyond the cliff. “I don’t know the future,” she says with a scowl. “I wish I did sometimes - it could make my job easier - but I don’t.”

Lance leans against a tree and sinks to the ground, his emotions draining from him and leaving him weary in both mind and body. He half-expects Pidge to be gone when he lifts his head, but when she instead sits beside him, her shoulder brushing his, he can’t help smiling.

“You don’t have other places to be?” he asks with a sideways glance.

Pidge says, “I can spare a few minutes for you.”

Her words warm him, the first positive thing he’s felt in days. It seeps into him, makes him wonder how a woman - an _angel_ \- he’s met only three times managed to affect him like this.

“Do angels not have wings?” he wonders.

“Most do,” Pidge replies without a hint of surprise at his strange question.

“Do…you?”

She nods, and when he shoots her a questioning look, she smiles and says, “I keep them hidden most of the time.”

Lance presses his lips together, resisting the urge to ask to see them. Somehow he knows that request wouldn’t be welcome.

Instead he wraps his arms around his legs, perching his chin on his knees, and says, “Why can’t my mother be immortal too?”

“I don’t know,” Pidge admits.

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” he grumbles, more harshly than he really means to.

But Pidge doesn’t seem to take offense, instead sighing and saying, “I know, and I wish I could tell you. But…”

When she drifts off, lost in thought, Lance stretches his legs out and half-turns to face her. “Pidge?” he prompts.

Pidge flinches, startled, and meets his eyes. “Fate just has something big in store for you.”

“Is that a guess or is it true?”

She spins a twig between her fingers, gaze now fixed on it. “It’s a theory,” she says. “I’ve been doing some research, mostly in secret in my free time.”

Lance raises an eyebrow at her. “And?”

“Mostly looking into past immortals,” she explains. “It seems they all led relatively mundane lives until they had some big moment. After that, an angel of death collected their souls.”

Lance blinks at her, uncertain, and says, “So I have a…moment.”

Pidge nods. “That’s what it seems like.”

“And you have no idea what it is?”

She shakes her head. “Absolutely none.”

“Well,” Lance says, chuckling as he rests his hand on Pidge’s shoulder, “at least I now know how to get your attention.”

She frowns at him. “Oh?”

He smirks at her. “All I have to do is put myself into a situation so dangerous that you’ll intervene even though you know I won’t die."

Pidge scowls and retorts, “You’d better not. I have better things to do than making sure you don’t kill yourself, and I _know_ you won’t succeed at that.”

Lance raises an eyebrow at her. “Oh really? Care to test that theory?” He stands up in one fluid motion and steps back towards the cliff.

“You wouldn’t,” Pidge says.

“Wouldn’t I?” he teases.

Lance puts a foot over the edge…and immediately regrets it.

His heart pounds a furious, frightened beat in his chest, air and gravity both sucking at his foot and trying to drag him down. His head spins, but before he can jump away, Pidge grabs his arm and tugs him back so suddenly and _harshly_ that they fall.

Lance’s pulse rushes in brief alarm, but he hits the ground far quicker than he would’ve before.

Beside him, Pidge sits up and crosses her arms. “You have the survival instinct of a seventeen-year-old boy,” she accuses.

Lance, despite his fright, grins and says, “Well, I haven’t aged a day over twenty-one.”

To his surprise and delight, Pidge laughs. “That’s a pitiful excuse.”

He props himself on his elbows. “I know,” he says, “but it’s one I’ll get to use a lot, I think.”

Pidge frowns, leaning a little towards him. “Are you lonely, Lance?”

He blinks at her. “Am I…lonely?”

“It…can’t be easy, being immortal when everyone around you is dying.”

Lance sighs and lies back down again, raising an arm to shield his eyes from the sun. “It’s not,” he says, “and I can’t tell anyone.”

“Have you had to explain your missing belly button?”

“No, I’ve actually done—” Lance cuts himself off and glances at her, wondering if he’s imagining the flush in her cheeks. “You remember that?”

Pidge smirks and says, “I think angels have better memories than humans.”

Lance chuckles and feels his own face warm, but he dismisses the sun as the cause. “Then a hundred years from now, you’ll have to remind me of this conversation.”

“Of your promise not to ‘consider’ killing yourself again?”

“What promise?” Lance asks.

Pidge’s smile widens. “Oh, you forgot already?”

Lance laughs so hard he doubles over, gasping for breath. It’s the best he’s felt since long before his mother died, but the thought that this moment is fleeting sobers him quickly.

As does Pidge’s eventual departure, but at least this time she says goodbye before she vanishes.

(He makes a mental note to ask her what perfume she wears.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as a religious person with angels (including one of death) being part of the theology writing this fic was (and still is) a really Weird experience
> 
> also...the first five chapters count as what i now call "catching the eye of an angel of death for dummies" ;)


	4. rising star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes change is good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vague summaries are vague because i have no idea what to put there
> 
> and **warning** for a brief bit of blood and violence, but it's not very graphic

After his brother passes away, Lance leaves affairs at the dairy farm to Marco’s children.

He can’t dodge odd looks or snide questions disguised as compliments anymore, least of all from his own family members, so Lance packs up his belongings and books passage to the mainland.

He isn’t sure what he’ll do once he reaches the States, but he’s eager to find out.

Maybe he’ll even find his fate - his _moment_ \- there.

* * *

New York is louder and more crowded and _smellier_ than Lance expects, but its energy infects him, burrows under his skin and adheres to his soul. He finds himself staying out late, finds the hidden speakeasies where no one minds that his English is broken.

Women seem to think his accent attractive, and Lance is happy enough taking advantage of that after work. But when it comes to actual dates, they all feel lackluster, his interest fleeing fast, and he can’t imagine himself even _kissing_ any of the women he infrequently sees.

Yet sometimes he still heads to a bar rather than to the small apartment he can barely afford with a dockworker’s salary. He laughs and he smiles and he gossips, making friends - friends that he knows deep down are temporary - both at work and at play.

And in the morning he learns English by reading the newspaper.

“Ta-Takachi Chirogone?” Lance squints at the unfamiliar name; it doesn’t sound _American_. But his eyebrows rise in understanding and _shock_ the further into the article he gets.

Lance puts the newspaper down and scratches his head. A Japanese-American pilot surviving a plane crash with no injuries…a miracle.

He taps his fingernails on the table and sighs. Pidge would know, would be able to confirm his suspicions, but Lance hasn’t seen her in almost fifteen years.

He can’t tell if he misses her anymore, if it’s been long enough that she’s just another person that exists only in his memories and nowhere else. Like his mother and father, like his brother, like men he fought beside when he was still a soldier…

Most days pass without Lance thinking of Pidge, and that thought alone makes his chest ache.

But life moves along, and Lance trudges through it wondering if he can do _more_ …

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice a man standing in his path until a glint on his knife catches his eye.

Lance, still tipsy from the bar, can’t muster any fear when the man demands money. And perhaps if he was sober, he might’ve acquiesced without a fight, but alcohol has always made him more reckless in action and in words.

The scuffle ends with him lying on his back on the damp pavement, a streetlight shining into his eyes and nearly blinding him. His skin is wet and warm with blood when he probes around the injury.

Strangely, it burns less than a paper cut.

“This won’t kill me,” Lance mutters with a slight smirk, which falters as soon as he remembers he’ll take time to heal, time he won’t be able to work, time he’ll lose money and bills will go unpaid. He curses and wonders if death is preferable.

But Lance doesn’t really want to die bleeding out on a street far from his home, so he rolls onto his side and crawls towards help.

He makes it less than a block before darkness overtakes his senses.

* * *

The scene is eerily familiar when Lance opens his eyes. He’s at one end of a long ward, though this time it’s better lit. And Pidge stands over him, hands on her hips and a reproachful scowl on her face, dressed like a nurse.

Lance smiles weakly and says, “Every time you’re there when I wake up I swear my soul ascends.”

Her scowl falters. “Is that one of the lines you use on women?”

For some reason, his stomach twists into knots at that. “My soul can’t actually ascend, Pidge.”

She crosses her arms. “I know that.” She steps away from his cot, shifting her feet and looking anywhere but at him.

Lance winces, pain traveling from a point on his abdomen all the way up his spine, as he struggles to sit up. But like a moth to a flame, Pidge is at his side, her arm around him as he settles against a pillow.

“How do you know about, uh, the women I see sometimes anyway?” Lance wonders, scratching his chin.

Pidge moves away from him again and takes the warmth of her body with her. “I…drop in to check on you sometimes,” she admits as her cheeks turn red.

Lance raises an eyebrow at her, though her admission makes his heart sink. “And you don’t come by and say hi?”

“It wouldn’t be _appropriate_ ,” Pidge grumbles, and Lance has the impression she’s repeating someone else’s words verbatim.

“Then why visit now?” Lance wonders, rolling his eyes at her. “If it’s against the rules, why bother at all?”

“I was collecting another soul at this hospital,” she says, hunching in on herself. “I thought I’d stop by and see how you were.”

“Where do you keep it?”

Pidge stares at him. “Keep what?”

“The…souls you collect,” Lance clarifies with a wave of his hand. He narrows his eyes at her, taking in her uniform, and adds, “Is a soul small enough to fit in your pocket?”

Pidge laughs and slides her hands into the pockets in her skirt, looking more at ease than she has since he woke to see her standing over him. “They’re not really…physical,” she says. “I don’t carry them, exactly. I tether them to myself.”

“Which means…?”

She shrugs, turning to lean against his cot. “I have to tie a soul to my essence to pull it out of a body,” she explains. “I…I’m essentially one with a person as they die.” She stares at her feet as she speaks, her shoulders slumped.

“I…” Lance stares at her and recognizes something in her he’s seen in himself. “You’re mourning them.”

“In a way,” Pidge says easily enough. She smiles slightly at him, but it looks forced, a gesture for his benefit. “I won’t feel anything for them once I sever the tie.”

“Was my soul ever tied to your…essence?”

Pidge sucks in a startled breath, her eyes meeting his, and says, “Yes.”

Lance narrows his eyes. “Are they still tied together?”

When Pidge nods, she says, “It’s why I can find you so easily.”

Lance rubs his face, head spinning at the revelation. He’s not sure what it means - and something tells him Pidge won’t know either.

But he has to ask her anyway.

“Am I immortal because _you_ made me like that?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” Pidge says. She sits on the edge of his bed, pulling her feet up - bare, unlike a true nurse - with her. “I… _meant_ to sever the tie, I tried for what felt like _hours_ , but when it didn’t work I realized the improbable happened.”

“The impossible, you mean?” Lance deadpans.

“No, the improbable. Aren’t you listening?”

Lance chuckles, then grimaces when the motion upsets his wound. He puts a hand to his abdomen, then asks Pidge, “What about that pilot?”

“What pilot?”

“Takashi Shirogane,” he says. “He survived a plane crash without getting hurt. That’s a miracle, Pidge.”

She hums, playing with the end of her ponytail. “Sounds like it.”

“So…you _don’t_ know?”

Pidge rolls her eyes and says, “Lance, we’ve been over this. I _don’t_ know anything about it, but I do know it’s _unheard of_ for two immortals to be around at the same time.” She stares down the ward, into some place Lance can’t see, gaze thoughtful and distant.

But before he can ask her to share her thoughts, the door to the ward opens, and a man ventures in to check on other, more distant beds.

Lance is then conscious that he’s been speaking to Pidge at a normal volume, and he quietly wonders, “Wait, am I the only one who sees you?”

Pidge jumps, her head spinning around to face him. “What?”

Lance laughs. “Does anyone else see you?”

“Not if I don’t want them to.” She smirks and leans towards him, a small hand on his covered chest for balance, until her face is a paltry distance from his own, close enough he can smell that strange sweetness on her breath. “But don’t worry,” she reassures him, “I promise I won’t let them think you’re crazy and having conversations with yourself.”

Lance stares into her startling brown eyes. “O-oh,” he says eloquently, heart pounding, “b-but I don’t think a nurse would be…flirting with me.”

When Pidge shifts away from him, Lance exhales. Then she looks down at her clothes and says, “Nurse? I thought this was just what women here wear to a hospital.”

Lance can’t help laughing when she hops down from the cot, not even when his face heats up once the doctor stops at his bed for his checkup.

The doctor’s gaze flicks from Pidge, standing a short distance away, down to her bare feet. The only sign that he thinks them strange is a slight raising of his eyebrows, but then his attention is on Lance.

Pidge bursts into laughter once the doctor is out of earshot, doubling over as her shoulders tremble. Lance, despite the delight he gets from the sight, crosses his arms and grumbles, “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Yes,” Pidge says, smiling as she looks at him, “thanks to—” Her eyes snap to the entrance of the ward for a moment, but before Lance can ask her what happened, she shakes her head and returns her attention to him.

“What are you going to do now?” she wonders…and that’s how Lance realizes that their time together is at an end - for now.

But he still smiles and remembers a man named Takashi Shirogane. “I’m not sure,” he says, “but I hear the army takes pilots now. And I’ve always wanted to fly…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapters are about to start getting longer (though not by much at first). also the next one is one of my favorites ;)
> 
> Hope you're liking it so far!! and thank you so much if you've left kudos or comments or reblogged the tumblr posts. All of that means so much to me <3


	5. terminal velocity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gravity shows no mercy, even to one immortal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WWII as a period of history holds little to no interest to me, yet here this chapter is...deliberately vague with certain things about which i know almost nothing *sweats*
> 
>  **warning** for a rather extreme case of falling (you can ask me where it is if you think you need to skip it)

When Lance enlisted in the army, he hoped he would meet Captain Takashi Shirogane. And rather than meeting the esteemed miracle pilot that inspired him, Lance met his protege instead.

Lance forgets Keith’s last name as soon as he hears it, too _annoyed_ at the way their flight instructors and commanding officers praise his piloting. Sure, he’s easily the most talented cadet in their class - he knows Takashi Shirogane so _of course_ he is - but it’s not something to sniff at. It takes more than skilled flying to be a soldier.

Lance grumbles when the first rankings come out, where it shows he’s at the bottom of the cadet class and barely qualifying for active duty. But he passes.

Keith is still in Lance’s squadron.

Keith brushes off their commanders’ praise and rarely engages with their fellow pilots. He holds himself apart, and Lance can’t tell if he’s arrogant and aloof or merely unsociable.

It drives him mad, and he wants to drag Keith into conversation nearly as much as he wants to push him further away, where no one can praise or insult him, where he doesn’t exist.

Lance can’t help paying attention to Keith’s movements. He isn’t sure if it’s innate curiosity about the one pilot that never talks about himself, or if he wants to emulate him. Perhaps there’s something to be said about his skills in his reservation.

(”Maybe you’d be as good a pilot as you think you are if you didn’t talk so much,” his instructor once said.)

Keith never changes in front of the other men, always dressing in a hurry in the empty barracks before morning drills and running out with his uniform crooked. It’s the only thing he gets reprimanded for more often than anyone else.

Lance can understand the need to change with no one else looking, not when he still has a starkly white scar on his abdomen from a knife in the gut, right by where a belly button used to be. But he’s gotten used to dressing and undressing and bathing with his back turned, nearly to the point where his comrades tease him about being bashful.

Lance laughs at that, though something like homesickness lodges into his throat when he remembers the men he fought alongside in his first war almost a lifetime ago.

It’s not until their commanding officer publicly berates Keith for missing his _second_ physical in a row that Lance grows suspicious.

“What’re you hiding?” he goes so far as to ask once.

He corners Keith right before their evening meal, outside the mess, with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

Keith eyes him warily. “Nothing,” he says, but from how quick and _brisk_ his response is Lance can tell he’s lying.

“Oh, really?” Lance says, unable and unwilling to keep skepticism from his voice. He smiles and says, “Not a spy, are you?”

Keith’s lips draw down into a scowl, and Lance can tell he hit a nerve.

Belatedly he remembers that Keith is scrutinized for his association with Captain Shirogane, that the officers that have never seen him fly firsthand question his enlistment and recommend that he be sent to Europe regardless of the rest of the squadron’s deployment.

“That was…a poor joke,” Lance amends, too slowly.

Keith rolls his eyes and tries to step around him.

Lance side-steps, blocking his path again, but before he can say anything, he quickly adds, “Look, I know you don’t have any friends in the squadron, so if you ever need one…” He trails off, leaving the offer hanging, because after every hint of animosity between them - real or not - Lance can’t bring himself to finish.

But guilt finally makes him try to bridge the gap. He’s old, even if he doesn’t look his age, and he knows what it is to be surrounded by people yet lonely.

Keith stares at him, eyes wide and surprised. “Thanks, Lance,” he says.

This time when he walks past him and into the mess, Lance doesn’t stop him.

* * *

When Lance forgets his canteen at the barracks once before morning drills, he returns while Keith is still rushing to change into his uniform.

Keith looks up at the sound of the wooden door creaking open, but before he can turn around or cover his navel, Lance sees it.

Or _doesn’t_ see it.

Lance can’t help laughing himself silly once he recovers from the shock of another man missing a belly button. Keith’s scowl, somehow, only makes him laugh harder, and he doubles over, lungs burning and out of breath.

“You know,” he says once he can breathe again - and once Keith has a shirt on, “I bought some makeup off an air controller to make it look like I have a belly button for physicals.”

“So…?” Keith gapes in understanding. “Wait, what?”

Lance lifts the hem of his shirt, and Keith’s eyes bug out as they drift to his stomach. “It’s not even that hard, but you do have to be careful it doesn’t get smeared.”

“You can…apply makeup?”

Lance nods, and finally remembers to collect and shoulder his canteen from under his cot. “I learned in the twenties,” he tells Keith. “Friend of mine taught me.”

Keith crosses his arms but follows Lance out of the barracks and towards where the rest of their squadron waits. “That long ago? You don’t…look old enough.”

“Oh, did your angel of death not explain it to you?”

Keith stands in front of Lance, forcing him to a halt, and asks, “What _do_ you know?”

Lance shrugs. “Enough? I was born in 1877. I _used_ to have a belly button - used to have a scar right here on my hand too”—he traces a barely recalled line on his palm—”but can’t even remember how I got it. _And_ I should’ve drowned in 1902, should’ve bled out after getting stabbed in 1928…” He rests a hand on his abdomen, right over that scar. “What about you? Any fun stories like that?”

“I…” Keith averts his eyes from Lance, glancing over his shoulder. “I don’t know what year I was born.”

Lance blinks, surprised. “Huh.”

“First date I remember was in the 1860s,” Keith explains. “My father moved us out of Texas when I was a kid, away from the war, and further west. He opened a schoolhouse in a barely settled town, but was shot during a break-in when I was about…nineteen.” He shifts his feet, and Lance can tell he rarely talks about this, if ever.

The thought warms him, and Lance wonders why they couldn’t be friends sooner.

(His own stupidity and jealousy, probably.)

“The intruder shot me too”—he rests a hand on his chest—”when I tried to fight him. When I woke up after bleeding, my father was dead but an angel of death told me he wouldn’t be taking my soul with his.”

Lance rests his hand on Keith’s shoulder and squeezes. “I’m sorry that happened.”

Keith shrugs his hand off, and Lance tries not to take offense. “You had nothing to do with it.”

“Maybe not, but…most of my family’s dead now too.” He smiles and changes the subject, “So was your angel a pretty girl with glasses too?”

“It was a man,” Keith tells him, “but yes, he wore glasses.”

Lance laughs, and something like envy makes his stomach twist. “Oh, I thought mine was a man at first too.”

“His voice was too deep to be a woman’s,” Keith says.

His envy vanishes as if it never was, and Lance can’t help smiling the entire way back to the squadron.

And though they’re both reprimanded and forced to run extra drills, Lance knows that Keith is now more friend than rival.

* * *

Not long after their deployment to Europe, Lance distinguishes himself as a sharpshooter. It bolsters his reputation, though his superiors and peers still criticize his flying to his dismay, and he rarely misses a target.

Once, that miss should prove fatal.

The enemy fighter pivots at the last, crucial moment, and before Lance can recover, he retaliates.

An explosion shakes the cockpit and shoves Lance from his plane. Cold air and heat both attack his skin, exposed when the blast tore at his suit. His head spins, disoriented and without bearing, and his stomach turns with sudden nausea.

His ears ring, the blast echoing through his skull, and Lance only knows he’s falling from the way his heart jumps into his throat. He struggles not to panic and tugs on the string to deploy his parachute - it _should’ve_ deployed when he was blasted from the plane - but nothing happens.

Lance knows a fall won’t kill him, but he remembers the warnings. It’s not a landing he _wants_ to survive, because it won’t be one he walks away from.

Lance lets loose a string of curses as air whistles past him and gravity drags him towards the gray-green ground below. It’s the cliff after his mother’s death all over again, only this time he can’t stop himself, and Pidge isn’t here to rescue him.

Small fingers slip under his arm, grip featherlight but strong, and Lance jolts in midair. His body slows in its descent, the air not so cold anymore, and he wonders if he imagines the flapping of powerful wings. His stomach swoops, the sensation not unpleasant for it reminds him of flying…

Lance wakes up on the ground without the memory of blacking out. And without the panic of falling, the fear of maiming that would kill anyone else, the stiffness in his muscles - the tender bruises and stinging lacerations from the explosion - comes to the forefront of his mind.

He laughs and says, “Angel of death, or guardian angel?” Slowly he rolls onto his side and gets to his feet, wincing the entire way.

Lance doesn’t know how long it takes for him to stumble back into camp, for sometime after his second morning time lost meaning while he grew more and more delirious with pain, thirst, and hunger. Really, it’s a wonder to him that he managed to find his way back at all rather than intruding on a German encampment instead.

But he’s so relieved to be among friendly faces that he falls over laughing when the officer on duty catches him as he falls.

“Sergeant?” the officer asks, but Lance only distantly hears him.

Keith visits him while he recovers and doesn’t wait for Lance to greet him before demanding, “What happened?”

“I didn’t die,” Lance tells him, leaning back against a pillow that’s plusher than he remembers. He grins and adds, “And I can still walk.”

Keith stares at him, looking like he wants to ask more questions, but Lance, for once, doesn’t want to answer.

* * *

Lance falls awake, flinching away from the ground before he recognizes that he’s safe and comfortable in the softest bed he’s ever owned. As his heartbeat slows, he groans and rubs his face, recalling glimpses of a nightmare; for some reason he only dreams of the fall and never the explosion that spurred it.

Rain drips lightly outside with a soft, consistent patter against the glass of his bedroom window, and the glow of streetlights filters in through the blinds and scatters a dappled pattern over the floor. But it’s still dark outside, only a couple hours after midnight according to the clock on the wall, and Lance rolls onto his side in an attempt to sink back into sleep.

He’s been back in New York for almost two years, and unlike the last time he returned from a war, no warm welcome from his family greeted him. He’s even lost contact with Keith, the one person he’s met that he can relate to, when he chose to stay in the army.

Lance almost did the same, unsure of his ensuing path in life, but the bombs that ended the war make something ugly twist in his stomach if he so much as thinks about them. The loss of life hurts him, makes his chest tighten when he thinks of all the faces he once saw, now dead and buried or unrecognizable.

He’s on the edge of sleep when a trace of a familiar scent reaches his nose, a presence he can barely sense making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Pidge,” he breathes into his pillow.

Something - his hairbrush, he thinks - falls and lands on the floor with a _clack_ that fills the otherwise silent room. But then a petite figure withdraws from the shadows, light reflecting off a pair of glasses.

“I thought you were asleep,” Pidge says as she approaches.

“Oh, you know,” Lance says when he sits up and turns on his bedside lamp, “I had a nightmare.”

The lamp casts an almost ethereal glow over Pidge’s face as she perches on the edge of his bed and admits, “I know. I…sensed it.”

Lance blinks at her. “You did? How?”

Pidge nods and explains, “It’s that weird bond we have. I already told you I can sense when you’re in danger, and I did again just now.” She scowls. “Apparently it’s an imperfect sense.”

“Then…why didn’t I see you more during the war?” Lance wonders carefully, uncertain if he wants to hear the answer. “I was in danger more times than I can count then.”

She smooths a wrinkle in his blanket, chewing on her lip, and says, “I didn’t have the chance too. There was too much death, too many souls to collect.” She shudders and rubs her face, shoulders hunched. “It was almost as bad as the one before it.”

“Are you…okay now?” Lance asks her, heart heavy with worry. A reflex makes him reach for her hand, stilling her fidgeting.

Pidge smiles but she doesn’t look at him. “Better,” she says. “Are you?”

Lance shrugs. “I think so. I’m not a puddle of blood and brains in Europe, at least…thanks to you.”

Pidge meets his eyes. “You recognized me?”

“Hard not to?” Lance says. When Pidge raises an eyebrow at him, he adds, “Who else with wings would save my life like that?”

“I didn’t save your life so much as the body it’s tied to,” Pidge points out pragmatically.

“Why didn’t you stay and chat like usual?”

She rolls her eyes “I was a little too busy for that, Lance.”

Lance laughs and absentmindedly strokes the back of her hand with his thumb. “I missed you,” he admits. “I haven’t seen you in…how long has it been?”

Pidge’s brows knit together. “I’m not sure,” she says. “I’m not good at keeping time.”

Lance sighs and lets go of her hand to stretch. He lies down again, patting the spot beside him before resting the back of his head on his hands. “We have a strange friendship.”

Pidge doesn’t accept his wordless invitation and only looks at him. “Are we friends?”

“Aren’t we?” Lance says, frowning. “I’ve known you for a long time now, even if we don’t see each other often, and you know things about me that I haven’t told anyone, not even Keith.”

“Who’s Keith?”

“Someone else like me,” he says. He narrows his eyes at her. “Rare as we are, I thought you would’ve known.”

Pidge shrugs and pulls her feet onto the bed. “Word doesn’t travel among us as fast you seem to think, but…”

“But?” Lance prompts when she trails off.

“I found out you were right about Takashi Shirogane,” Pidge tells him with a slight smile. “Actually, it was my brother who went to collect his soul.”

“Your brother?” Lance stares at her, eyes widening. For some reason he’s surprised she has someone like a _brother_ , a family just like he once did. “You have a family?”

Pidge nods. “I have parents and a brother,” she says. She tugs on a loose thread in the hem of her dress. “I suspect I haven’t seen them in a long time too.”

“I…what do you mean?”

“I don’t go home very often, Lance,” Pidge explains with a sigh. “And when I do, I don’t always find someone else there too. I don’t even really _have_ a home.”

“Oh,” Lance says, uncertain what else to say, if he should comfort her.

But he can empathize, though he hasn’t returned to Cuba since leaving…

“So what happened to Keith?” Pidge asks, nudging his leg to get his attention. “You said he’s like you?”

“Well, I met him in flight school,” he tells Pidge, “and he was in my squadron during the war. He’s older than I am, actually.” He laughs. “I haven’t met anyone like that in a while.”

Pidge frowns at him. “Where is he now?”

“Still in the army, or…well, I guess it’s the Air Force now.” He shrugs and glances at the clock. “He’s a better pilot than I am,” he confesses reluctantly. “Maybe that’s why he’s there.”

“But you love flying,” Pidge observes, “so why _didn’t_ you stay?”

“No tyrant to fight right now,” Lance muses. “I…had a purpose, and now I don’t know what to do with myself.”

Pidge gazes at him thoughtfully, and Lance can’t help squirming under her scrutiny. Then she says, “I’ve noticed a lot of veterans are going to college.”

“College?” Lance quirks an eyebrow at her, intrigued, but then he sighs. “I don’t know if that’s an option for me, Pidge. I don’t have enough education to make it into college.”

“Why don’t you try?” she asks. “You could probably do it.”

“Right,” he says, “except it’s been so long since I was in anything like school that I forgot how it goes.”

“Well, it’s something for you to think about, at least.”

Lance smiles, but it takes effort. The topic of _school_ has never been a pleasant one for him, but he tells Pidge, “I’ll think about it.”

Pidge returns his smile and says, “Good.”

Sensing the end of her visit when she stands and straightens her clothes, Lance says, “Don’t be a stranger, except…”

“Except what?”

Lance smirks and hopes she can’t see the flush in his cheeks. “Can you knock next time you visit? Really, you’re lucky I don’t sleep in the nude.”

Pidge rolls her eyes. “Lance, I’ve already seen you naked.”

“What?” Lance gapes at her when she flashes him a smirk of her own. “You—wait, _when_?”

“The first time,” she says with a shrug.

It takes a moment for him to recall, but when he does he says, “So I’m so impressive physically that you still think of it sometimes?”

Pidge laughs, the sound filling his chest with a pleasant warmth. “I couldn’t say,” she says. “It’s been long enough that I can’t remember if I was impressed…or horrified.”

Lance groans and covers his face, embarrassed. “Pidge…”

“What?” He looks up, startled when he hears her voice so close. She runs her fingers through his hair, making his breath catch in his throat, and says, “I think this is the shortest I’ve ever seen your hair though.”

“It…yeah,” he agrees, mimicking her. “I had to keep it buzzed in the army; I think I just got used to it like this.”

Pidge narrows her eyes, almost critically. “I kind of like it a little longer,” she tells him.

“Maybe I’ll grow it out a little just for you then,” Lance teases.

To his delight, her face turns red. “I…”

“On one condition though,” he adds.

She snorts. “And what’s that?”

Lance grins and says, “You have to promise to visit more often.”

Pidge’s face falls so quickly he’s left with only the memory of her smile. “I can’t promise anything, Lance.”

“Of course not,” he says, unable to disguise the bitterness in his voice. “I just have to miss a friend for God knows how long, without any indication if I’ll see you again.”

“It’s nothing personal,” Pidge argues. “It’s my _job_.”

“I know,” Lance retorts. He crosses his arms and rolls onto his other side so that his back is to her. “Maybe it’s just better if you don’t bother with me anymore since you don’t have the time.”

“Lance—”

“It’s fine, Pidge,” he tells her despite the shame twisting in his belly and the dread at his own words making his heart sink. “I understand the importance of your work; people _do_ have to die, I guess.”

“You really _don’t_ understand then,” Pidge says, irritable.

“Then explain it to me!” Lance says, shooting up and glaring at her. “I want to think of us as friends, but friends don’t only see each other once every fifteen years or more!”

Pidge’s spine stiffens. “It’s not something I can discuss as freely as you think,” she says. “I - or we’re so closely scrutinized that I can’t risk staying any longer when I _do_ see you.”

“Why not?” Lance demands, spreading his arms and gesturing around at his room. “What’s really stopping you?”

“Look,” Pidge says, visibly struggling to contain her patience by pinching her eyes shut, “my being here longer than I should attracts attention, and when I attract attention…” She trails off and shudders.

Lance frowns. “What are you afraid of, Pidge?”

Pidge shifts her shoulders, her entire stance, and tears her gaze away from him. “Getting my wings clipped.”

“Wait, what?” Lance throws his blanket aside and jumps out of bed, but before he can take more than a step towards her - before his spiked heartbeat can drive him forward - Pidge sighs and disappears.

Lance stares at the spot where she stood, closing and opening his eyes as if she’ll still be there when he looks again. He scowls and paces the length of his bedroom and grumbles, “You can’t just say something like that then leave without _explaining_ it, Pidge.”

But his frustration recedes quickly, and Lance wearily slumps on his bed to bury his face in his hands. “What’s going on, Pidge?” he mutters. “What’s so bad you can’t talk about it?”


	6. low orbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some things are too good to be true, but all things must pass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~vague summary is vague~~
> 
> _sweats_ so uh i haven't updated this in a while...even though i've had this chapter done. whoops. and it's not because i was losing confidence in this story or anything..............
> 
> but anyway, enjoy!! and please tell me if you did because i love and appreciate that sweet, sweet validation <3

Lance can’t apply to universities as quickly as he’d like. He fails the entrance exams, only to learn that he’ll have to either forge high school transcripts…or take high school classes and exams to make up for his lack of formal education.

So Lance enrolls in night classes at a nearby high school, surrounded by adults that look much older than he does. He relearns topics half-remembered, and some things he’d never thought about. Math, for example, isn’t as difficult as he remembers, at least until his teacher suggests he takes calculus.

Some days, between his day job as a janitor and his classes in the evening, Lance is ready to give up, but the promise of something better - and it doesn’t hurt that he won’t have to pay his own tuition - drives him forward.

Lance graduates high school and passes his college entrance exams by the skin of his teeth, and even throws himself a party - triumphantly quitting his day job - to celebrate when he’s accepted to the University of Florida. The friends he’s made at work and at the bars he frequents congratulate him, patting him on the back and wishing him luck. And Lance is happy.

When he moves to Florida, his life doesn’t feel so frozen anymore. He has a purpose again - even if it’ll last only as long as it takes him to earn a degree - and he wakes up every morning as lively as ever.

But the hot and humid weather in Florida reminds him of home, and it doesn’t take long for homesickness to set in, to sink his heart and sour his mood on some days.

It gets better in his second year, when his dwindling funds force him to find a roommate.

Hunk studies engineering and keeps his space in the apartment clean. He knows how to cook and calls his grandparents on the communal phone once a week.

To Lance, he’s painfully normal - if one of the smartest people he’s ever met - and a welcome presence in his life.

Unfortunately, they’ve only lived together for two weeks when Hunk catches sight of Lance’s belly button - or lack of one.

“Uh, Lance?” Hunk says, pointing at Lance’s navel before he can pull on a shirt. “Why…don’t you have a belly button?”

Lance’s heart pounds so loud he thinks Hunk can hear it from the other side of the room. He plasters a smile onto his face and says, “Oh, I do have one. You must be seeing things.”

Hunk narrows his eyes at him, suspicious. “So I get that you’re kind of a weird guy and even though you talk about your family”—Lance swallows, nervous and uncertain—”you don’t have any pictures or anything of them. But…if you’re like an alien out of _War of the Worlds_ —”

“Wait, what?” Lance laughs. “I’m not an alien. I’m completely, entirely, 100 percent human.” _Just…not a mortal one._

“Where are you from?” Hunk asks. “Neptune?”

Lance raises an eyebrow at him, amused. “Why Neptune? Why not Mars, or Jupiter, or, hell, Venus?” He stuffs his hands into his pockets and shrugs. “I’d like to think I’m good-looking enough to come from Venus.”

Hunk wears a flat, unimpressed expression. “Right,” he says. “While that is not untrue—”

“Thank you, Hunk.”

“—you just strike me as a _blue_ person.”

Lance smiles. “Well, I did grow up near the ocean.”

“So…?”

“Cuba,” Lance tells him. “You know, long island only a hundred miles south of Florida.”

Hunk grins. “Really? You barely have an accent.”

Lance smirks. “Well, I _have_ been in the States for a while…”

Oh, if only he knew how long.

* * *

 

Lance has nowhere to go for his winter vacations. He spends the holidays alone, although sometimes he makes plans with other friends he’s made that are stuck at school during their breaks, whether they have no family to return to or can’t afford the trip home.

He reads comic books and watches the television, both new pastimes for him, though comics have been around and more pervasive for longer. But there’s something about their cheesy action, the nobility the superheros espouse, that appeals to him, that makes him smile. He finds idealism in them, even as the world barricades itself fearing a nuclear winter.

They’re worthwhile distractions when Lance is lonely, when Christmas rolls around and he has no family to see. He almost wishes Hunk had stayed for the break, but Lance wouldn’t begrudge anyone time with their family.

He thinks of Pidge sometimes too and wonders if she spends Christmas with hers. Do angels of death celebrate Christmas, a holiday that uplifts a birth?

Lance wishes he could ask her, but he’s lost track of how long it’s been since he’s seen her. Perhaps not as long as their lengthiest separation, but they parted on bad terms last time they met and he can’t tell if he’ll ever see her again.

It’s also while living with Hunk that Lance discovers his nightmares abate, but he can’t say if it’s due to sharing space with someone else or if it’s some effect that Hunk himself has on him. He just knows that he doesn’t have a single nightmare in this apartment until Hunk leaves for the holidays.

Lance dreams of death, of his mother dissolving into ash that slips through his hands and of interring his own brothers into graves. The faces of everyone he saw die at war flash across his eyelids, playing out like a horrifying picture show that nearly stops his heart, and he wonders why he ever subjected himself to battle.

Lance dreams of his failures at dying. He drowns and wakes gasping for air, or he falls and bolts upright with a tremor that travels up his spine. The scar in his abdomen aches, and his navel itches with the memory of a belly button and the cord that once connected him to his mother.

But Pidge is never there like she was the first time, whether as a clinical and confused messenger or as a comforting presence, and years later Lance can’t even bring himself to be angry about it.

He eagerly awaits Hunk’s return, both because he hates coming home to an empty apartment and because he dreads the nightmares when he finally succumbs to sleep. But two days after the start of the semester, Hunk is still missing.

After class on the third day, Lance walks to the nearest pay phone with the slip of paper Hunk gave him before he left. He dials the number on it and puts the handset to his ear, listening to the tone until someone picks up.

“Hello?” says the voice of an elderly woman - Hunk’s grandmother.

“Hello,” Lance greets her. “My name’s Lance. I’m Hunk’s roommate, and I was worried about him since he’s not back yet.”

Hunk’s grandmother inhales sharply, static crackling over the line, and says, “Hello, Lance. Hunk’s told us so much about you.”

Lance laughs. “Good things?”

“And bad,” she admits with a shaky laugh of her own, but then she says, “I’m sorry, Lance, but Hunk is…in the hospital in Gainesville. His taxi on his way back to campus suffered an accident, and he’s recovering from his injuries.”

Lance barely hears anything after ‘accident’, but he manages to thank her and offer condolences before he hangs up the phone. But once his shock dissipates, he finds his bicycle and rides towards the hospital.

In reception he gives them Hunk’s name and they tell him where to go, and the fact that it’s in the ICU doesn’t bode well. His heart pounds as he approaches, a lump in his throat at odds with the fists clenching at his sides, but he halts at the sight of the last person he expected to see standing before the entrance to the ward, hair halfway down her back - longer than he remembers - and dressed in a nurse’s uniform.

Pidge’s eyes meet his and widen as she gasps, “Lance—”

“No, no, no no no,” Lance interrupts, waving his arms from side-to-side when what Pidge’s presence means registers. “Absolutely _not_. You do _not_ get to collect Hunk’s soul. You can’t leave me alone after every time I _would_ die and then just…take my friend’s soul, Pidge.” His voice cracks on her name, and the first sob bursts from him.

“A-and now I’m crying in a public hospital,” he grumbles shakily. “Thanks, Pidge.”

“I-it’s not what you think, Lance,” Pidge tells him.

“Oh, no?” Lance says, tone harsh. Shame stings him when she flinches, but he pushes it away. “So you’re here to rob someone else of their life?”

“ _Lance_ ,” Pidge hisses. “Just…” She growls and points at the door behind him. “Come on.” She grabs his wrist on her way past him.

He follows her, because he’s too shocked to protest, and she drags him all the way outside into an empty courtyard. When they face each other, with him struggling to control his breathing and wipe the snot dripping from his nose at the same time, she squeezes his wrist before she lets go.

Then Pidge surprises him again.

She wraps her arms around his middle and pulls his head down until he can bury his face in her neck. Her fingers stroke his hair, and he shudders and hugs her close to him.

“This is your fault,” he tells her when his crying slows.

She doesn’t argue, just holds him until he stops sobbing and starts hiccuping. “A-are you done?” she asks cautiously, voice low.

Lance tightens his grip on her. “Don’t you dare let go.”

“O-oh,” Pidge says. Her hand is still buried in his hair, fingers lazily running through it and her nails scraping against his scalp. Her breath falls on his ear, warming him, _comforting_ him.

It doesn’t change anything.

“Lance, I should explain,” she says softly, directly into his ear.

Lance shivers, wishing he could claim to be cold while her warmth surrounds him. “Then do it,” he says, “and you’d better have a damn good reason.”

For some reason, Pidge laughs, then says, “Your friend…Hunk? He’s not dead, and I’m not here to collect his soul.”

“Someone else then?” Lance hates the relief that floods him at hearing her words, that he’d so happily exchange his friend’s life for another’s.

“No, it’s…” Pidge pulls away from him, enough to look up at his face; from this close he thinks he can see every individual sliver of brown in her eyes. “Hunk is like you now.”

Lance narrows his eyes at her. “What do you—oh!” He grins, a warm, wild hope filling him. “Really? Wait, why?”

Pidge squeezes his waist and rolls her eyes. “I told you, I don’t know why this stuff happens, but his soul is now tied to my essence the same way yours is.”

Lance blinks at her, unsure how he feels about _that_. He’s relieved, of course, and so happy his heart feels like it’s about to swell out of his chest where moments ago it sank lower than his feet. But there’s something else there too, an indiscernible emotion that sits unpleasantly in his stomach.

“Hunk is immortal now,” Lance says with a smile.

“Hunk is immortal now,” Pidge echoes, returning a smile of her own.

Lance laughs and rubs his itchy eyes. “God, I must look like a mess.”

Pidge reaches into a pocket and pulls out a tissue. “You’re a surprisingly pretty crier,” she tells him. “I’m impressed.”

“No…” Lance accepts the tissue and wipes his face, thinking he should compose himself more before he finally visits Hunk.

To his surprise, Pidge smirks. “False modesty really doesn’t suit you.”

Lance’s face warms, but before he can feel too pleased about speaking to her again, their last meeting comes to the forefront of his mind.

“Were you ever going to see me again, if not for today?” Lance finds the courage to ask. He licks his chapped lips, heart pounding while he waits for an answer - one he dreads.

Pidge sighs and looks at her feet - bare, as usual, though they stand outside. “I…I don’t know, Lance,” she admits. “I wanted to.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I really—”

Lance takes her hand and squeezes. “Pidge, just—” He cuts himself off, considering his words carefully, and tries again, “You don’t have to, I guess, but you’re the most consistent thing about my life.” He frowns. “That might not be a good thing.”

Pidge laughs and covers her face with an arm. “Probably not, but I don’t think either of us can help it.”

He can still hear echoes of the argument from last time ringing through his ears, and he wants to ask her about that - about her opaque and cryptic words. But they’ve reached a tentative peace, and he doesn’t want to ruin it.

He doesn’t want to risk never seeing her again.

“So you…” Pidge shifts her feet and smiles. “You went to college.”

“Still there.” Lance stuffs his hands into his pockets, and together they wander back into the hospital.

“What are you studying?” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

Lance wonders why she’s kept her hair loose when every _real_ nurse wears hers up in a bun, but instead he replies, “Business.”

Pidge stops in her tracks and gapes at him. “Humans are doing _amazing_ things in science now,” she tells him.

Lance raises an eyebrow at her. “So?”

“ _So_ you study _business administration_?” Pidge laughs. “You’re amazing, Lance.”

His face warms. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” They resume walking past patients, visitors, and nurses, most of whom give Pidge an unusually wide berth. “So if not business, then what would you suggest?”

“Why not physics?” Pidge says with a wave. “Or engineering? Lance, imagine, humans are on the verge of inventing _space travel_.”

Lance smiles. “You think we can do it?”

Pidge shrugs and admits, “Yes, I do, though I can’t tell you if you will.”

Lance frowns, because he has the _odd_ impression she’s addressing him and him alone by saying _you_.

“Now go see your friend,” Pidge says, shoving him towards the ICU just down the hall.

Lance looks over his shoulder at her. “You won’t be here when I leave, will you?”

“I have a job to do,” Pidge tells him, rolling her eyes. “There’s always a job.”

“Why do people have to die, Pidge?” Lance wonders.

“I ask myself that every day,” Pidge says. Then she stands on her toes, a hand resting on his shoulder for balance, and kisses his cheek. “Take care of yourself, Lance.”

“You too,” Lance says numbly as he watches her leave. He shakes his head to clear it once she’s out of sight, though his mind keeps replaying the feeling of her lips brushing his cheek.

Lance finally enters the ICU and finds his way to Hunk’s room. He knocks on the door and peeks in when he notices it’s open.

Hunk sits upright in his head, balanced against a pillow. He looks up from a dinner tray as Lance enters, a wide smile splitting his face. “Hey, Lance,” he says. “How did you know that I was here?”

Lance grins, so relieved to see him awake and healthy; maybe he hadn’t believed Pidge when she first told him… “I noticed you were late and called your grandma,” he explains. “She told me what happened.”

Hunk gestures to the empty chair at his bedside, and when Lance takes it, he says, “I’d offer you some of my food”—he gestures to the plate of what looks like green beans, mashed potatoes, and a beef stew—”but I wouldn’t want to subject you to the agony that is hospital cuisine.”

Lance laughs and leans back in the chair, balancing it on two legs. “I’m good,” he says, though his stomach growls a beat later and puts the lie in his words.

Hunk chuckles, glancing down at his stomach right before frowning. “Well, I guess now I know why you don’t have a belly button.”

Lance somehow manages to catch himself before he falls out of the chair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA so sometime around these next few chapters i thought to myself _hey i can make this a hidgance fic_ but then i decided not to for Reasons ~~i'm a coward~~. but anyway, rest assured that Hunk's gonna be a pretty permanent fixture throughout the rest of the fic
> 
> (and hopefully i won't drag my feet on posting the next chapter...which isn't so angsty and mood-whiplash-y as this one...i think...it's been a while since i looked at it)


	7. cruising speed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> seeking something like stability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot?? don't know her

Lance moves to Miami after graduating with his Bachelor’s degree, when the distance between him and the culture that birthed him becomes unbearable. And for the first time in decades, he’s surrounded by people speaking Spanish in the same dialect his mother taught him.

(Of course, there are subtle differences from then and now, but he adjusts quickly.)

He gets a job as a salesman at a car dealership and often has to consult Hunk for his knowledge about cars and their mechanics.

Hunk, on the other hand, moves north, and Lance is alone again.

He buys a telephone, and they both call and chat when they can. It’s an improvement on the way it was before they met, but it can’t compare to college.

But Lance copes, like he always has, even when newspapers vilify the country of his birth. His chest tightens with every newsreel, and he isn’t sure if he feels more disgust or dread.

He might still have nieces and nephews alive, and shame twists in his gut whenever he thinks of him. But at this point, they’d look _far_ older than he does, and he doubts he would recognize them.

Lance laughs and waves when the ladies at his favorite bakery speak to him in rapid Spanish. They’re old enough to be his, well, not his grandmothers, unless he is actually the age he looks, but they often try to connect him with their granddaughters.

“You’re a nice young man,” Senora Martinez says when she passes him a paper-wrapped croissant one morning. “You have a good job, and you speak Spanish like you mean it.”

“How would I speak Spanish if I _don_ _’t_ mean it, Senora?” Lance wonders.

“Like one of those boys born here but whose parents didn’t teach it to them,” she tells him with a critical sniff. “I hear your English - you sound just like an American - but your mami did a good job with you, making sure you spoke your language.”

Lance swallows but manages to laugh. “She…did,” he agrees.

“Like I’m telling you, Lance,” Senora Martinez continues as he pays for his breakfast, “my granddaughter would be lucky to have a man like you.”

Lance smiles at her. “Well, if she makes pastries half as well as you do, then maybe she’s not too bad.”

“Hey, she’s too good for you then,” the grandmother retorts, “if all you want is a woman that bakes for you.” But she chuckles, and Lance knows she’s only teasing.

And only teasing it will stay, he muses as he leaves the bakery to continue on his way to work.

As pleasant as it is chatting with grandmothers that, for all intents and purposes, are closer to _his_ age than their granddaughters are, his chest aches with homesickness - for a different time as well as place. They remind him of his mother, and his grandmothers and aunts, and the comment on his accent, or lack of one, when he speaks English hurts too.

Gone are the days when he read the newspaper to learn a new language; now it’s his native tongue that needs more effort. 

* * *

Lance can afford to buy his first car in Miami, from the dealership where he works. It’s a Ford, the prototypical American car, and when he’s speeding down a highway with the window wide open for the breeze to flow through his hair, he can almost convince himself he’s flying.

He doesn’t much care for traffic though and prefers to walk when it’s an option. And it’s when he’s walking home with a brown paper shopping bag balanced on one arm that fingers curl around his opposite elbow.

Lance jumps backwards, barely recovering his groceries before he drops them and bumping into someone just behind him. He apologizes to him and adjusts his grip on the bag, right in time to hear a familiar giggle.

Pidge’s laughter is music to his ears, her smile a sight for sore eyes.

Lance stares at her, standing beside him on the sidewalk, and asks, “Am I about to _almost_ die again?”

Pidge raises an eyebrow at him. “Not that I know of.”

“So you’re here because…?”

She crosses her arms. “You mean I can’t visit you because I want to?”

Lance grins, giddy at the near-admission. “You can,” he says cheerfully, his evening already taking a turn for the better, “but you never have before. It’s always, _oh, Lance, please stop almost dying, I don_ _’t think I can take it anymore_.” He pitches his voice higher and bats his eyes at her.

Pidge rolls her eyes but falls into step beside him when he continues his walk to his apartment. “I do _not_ sound like that.”

“Oh, _don_ _’t you_?” He laughs when her annoyed expression lingers and taps her nose. “I am happy to see you though.”

Pidge’s face softens. “I thought you might be.”

Lance leads her upstairs and opens his apartment door for her, his smile glued onto his face as he watches her walk a circuit around the small living room. She inspects the television set, and the garbage disposal in the kitchen sink, and his car keys sitting on the table next to the front door.

“You know how to drive?” she asks him, picking up the key ring.

“Why is that so surprising?” Lance retorts. “I can fly a plane, so why not drive a car?”

Pidge’s eyes drift from the keys to his face, but then she shrugs and drops them.

She helps him unload his small amount of groceries, and despite her odd mannerisms - Lance wonders how much she _really_ knows about humans, despite her seemingly extensive knowledge - it all feels painfully domestic. 

Absurdly, his mind drifts to Senora Martinez’s granddaughter, and though he’s never met her, he starts to compare her to Pidge, from the way she checks the bottom of every single egg for cracks to how she flips through every single channel on the television set before settling on the very first one she saw. How she—

“Why are you always barefoot?” Lance wonders.

Pidge looks down and wiggles her toes. “I prefer bare feet to shoes,” she tells him. “They’re restrictive.”

“You can…fly,” Lance points out.

“So?” Pidge flops onto the sofa, already making herself comfortable by pulling her feet up. “I walk too.”

“Yeah, you walked home with me.”

For some reason, speaking the words aloud makes his heart rate pick up.

“Yes, because I…did have a reason for visiting actually,” Pidge admits, twisting the end of her ponytail around a finger.

He sits beside her on the sofa, careful to leave some space between them. “You mean, besides the fact that you missed me?” Lance smirks at her and tries to ignore the heat on his face.

Pidge nods. “I see your news sometimes,” she says, “and I may not always follow, but I’m kind of…drawn to things that might have something to do with you.”

Lance blinks at her. “What?”

“I just wanted to know if you…” Pidge bites her lip. “Do you miss your home?”

“I _am_ home,” he tells her, gesturing around his apartment.

She chuckles but says, “That’s not what I meant, Lance.”

He knows exactly what she means, and for some reason that surprises him.

“It’s just that Cuba’s been so much in your news lately, and humans seem to have this odd affinity and love for their birthplace, that I was…worried about you.” Pidge rubs her eyes and laughs without humor. “Does that make sense?”

“It does,” Lance says hesitantly. He smiles as he faces her and says, “And I’m fine, Pidge. You don’t have to worry about me about _that_ ; most of the family I had before leaving is long dead anyway.”

It’s not exactly a lie, but it sits in his gut like one.

“Oh,” Pidge says, and his guilt vanishes when her face brightens. “That’s good! I’m really glad to hear that, but I did have another question.”

Lance leans towards her, elbows perched on his legs and chin in his hands. “What do you want to know?”

“Why haven’t you started a new one?”

“A new what?”

Pidge fidgets with the hem of her skirt. “A new family.”

Lance gapes at her. “Wait, I’m not sure what you mean.”

Except, he thinks he does, thanks to the old ladies at the bakery…

“Why haven’t you found someone to start a family with?” Pidge asks with a wave of her hand. “Don’t most humans? You’re, well, you’re definitely _old_ enough to”—she chuckles at her own joke—”but you’re not married and don’t have children.” Then she frowns, gaze distant as she considers. “And as far as I know, immortality doesn’t make you _impotent_ , so—”

Face hot, Lance covers her mouth to halt the torrent of words. “Oh, hey, I _think_ I get it now. And…” He drops his hand, his heart following. “It’s not exactly…well, I may be _old_ , like you say, but I sometimes feel like my life is frozen.”

“Why do you think that?” she asks. “It’s not like you’re stuck in one place.”

“It feels like I am sometimes though,” he argues. He slumps back against the sofa, and the television fades into background noise - not that he paid it much attention anyway. “I’m twenty-one forever now, right?”

Pidge rubs her face. “I almost let myself be convinced that immortality would make someone happy.”

Lance laughs and rests a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t get me wrong, Pidge,” he says, prompting her to look at him, “I like not dying. I just kind of wish that…everyone around me was also not dying. Does _that_ make sense?"

Pidge stares at him, then slowly nods. “Your family,” she guesses. “Your friends.”

“Well…yes,” Lance says. “Imagine that if I meet someone and marry them, and we have children. What are the odds that _they_ _’ll_ be immortal too?” He sighs and smiles wistfully. “I _have_ dated, but that’s just something that always hangs over my head. Besides, how do I explain to my wife why I have no belly button?” He rubs his stomach and chuckles. “Explaining it to Hunk was hard enough, and it took _him_ becoming immortal too for me to figure it out.

“I was engaged once too,” he recalls, shooting Pidge a sideways glance and taking in her slightly wider eyes. “I don’t even remember her name…” He hums and laughs bitterly. “Almost a hundred years old and I’m _still_ inept at romance.”

Pidge settles in beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushes his. “Maybe your tactics are just outdated then,” she jokes.

Lance raises an eyebrow at her. “So what you’re saying is that I should date a woman my age?” He snorts. “She’ll just die sooner.”

They fall into silence, the sort that digs under Lance’s skin and makes him itch. He wants to fill it, preferably with meaningless chatter, so he turns to Pidge.

He finds her staring at him, an odd, contemplative expression on her face. ”I can’t imagine how it would feel to lose my family,” she says.

He’s not sure what it is about this moment that makes his heart beat faster, not when his chest is so tight and he can barely breathe. “You said you rarely see them.”

Pidge nods. “I know, but…” She rests a hand over her chest, where her heart would be. “They can’t die the way humans can.”

Lance smiles. “That must be reassuring.”

“It is,” she says. “There are other…risks that angels take, but death isn’t really one of them.”

Lance tries to ask her what she means, but the question that slips out of his mouth is _different_. “So…you have wings?”

Pidge quirks an eyebrow at him. “Yes. So?”

“Do they look anything like Angel’s from _X-Men_?”

Her eyes widen and she says, “Like _whose_?”

“Like—hold on.” He stands, leaving her on the sofa, and walks into his bedroom before retrieving a copy of one of his comic books. When he returns to the living room, he points to the cover. “Like that? With the big white wings sprouting from your back?”

Pidge’s gaze drifts from his face to the comic book cover, her lips parting in surprise before she slowly nods. “Yes, actually.” She takes the comic book from his hands and flips through it, scanning the panels with a growing smile on her face.

Lance sits next to her, looking over her shoulder to see what she’s reading. “You like it?” he wonders.

Pidge nods as she turns another page. “It’s…fun,” she says. “I don’t have much chance for that.”

“Huh, yeah, all work and no play makes Pidge a dull angel,” he teases. But at her sideways glance, he amends, “Not that you’re dull! You’re very interesting to be around and, of course, smart.”

Pidge laughs, the slightest hint of a flush on her nose, and pats his arm. “I’m so glad you thinks so,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Well, you have wings,” Lance points out, “and you can _fly_. That’s as interesting as it gets to me, and it really doesn’t hurt that you saved my life once like that.”

Pidge frowns and points out, “I didn’t save your life; I saved your _body_.”

“Same thing,” Lance says dismissively. He runs his fingers through his hair and admits, “My life would’ve been over anyway if you hadn’t caught me. God, I still have nightmares about that fall…”

Her small hand wraps around his forearm and squeezes, the warmth of her fingers reaching him even through the fabric of his sleeve. “You would still want to fly after that?”

“Yeah,” Lance says, nodding slowly. “I…hey, Pidge?” He grins at her when she raises a questioning eyebrow at him. “What’s it like flying with wings? How does it _feel_?”

Pidge smiles. “It’s kind of…indescribable.”

“Oh, thanks, Pidge,” Lance grumbles. “You are ever so helpful.”

Pidge giggles and sets the comic book aside in favor of facing him. “It’s tiring in a way that walking isn’t.”

“You’re really selling me on this,” Lance says, frowning.

“Well, you asked!” Pidge retorts with a shrug. “It’s, well, I don’t _really_ get tired, but it does sap some strength. And it’s…I feel weightless at the peak of my strength.” She stretches her arms over her head, and for a second he swears he catches the outline of something large and _white_ at her back. “Gravity and drag fight me, but the very air uplifts me. And I can feel every twist and turn in my stomach. The air tugs on my hair and clothes but it tickles as it slides over my feathers.” She laughs.

“Feathers?” Lance blinks in surprise.

Pidge nods. “What else would enable me to fly?”

“Does this mean you have hollow bones like birds?” Lance asks.

Pidge bites her lip and scowls, as if offended. “No, no it does not.”

“All right, I guess I forgot that I’m dealing with someone more _mystical_ than a city pigeon.”

“My wings are more like a hawk’s,” she says, “ _not_ a pigeon’s.”

Lance smirks. “And yet, your name is Pidge.”

She crosses her arms and scowls. “It’s a stupid nickname my brother gave me,” she tells him. “I go by it because I don’t see him as often as I want to.”

“Oh,” Lance says, at a loss but hating the empathetic ache in his chest at her words. “I’m—”

“Humans have done pretty well for themselves in flight lately,” Pidge interrupts him with a smirk. “Going all the way to space?”

Lance laughs, unsurprised that she would bring that up. “You follow the science news?”

“It’s…fascinating, to me,” Pidge says. She wraps her arms around her legs. “You can build machines so powerful that you can escape the Earth’s gravity and reach the moon.”

“Well,” Lance says with a shrug, “not quite yet.”

“Someday, Lance,” Pidge assures him, sounding so certain he questions her assertion that she doesn’t know the future. “And who knows?” She smiles at him. “You and I might be here to see it.”

Her statement, despite her nonchalance, brings warmth to his chest and face. It’s the first time in a long time that he doesn’t mind so much that he’s outlived almost everyone he ever loved, that there’s still no end, no break, in sight.

When his stomach growls, it disrupts the serenity of the atmosphere between them. Pidge laughs and stands up before he does, before he can ask if she wants to eat - if she even _needs_ to eat - dinner with him. And for a moment, when she spins in her dress and the hem swings around her ankles over her bare feet, she’s ethereal enough for him to doubt her existence for the first time in decades.

It doesn’t help that she’s gone after the next time he blinks, leaving him again, alone in an empty apartment. 

* * *

Lance holds a bowl of popcorn in his lap while he sits on the sofa in front of his television, anticipating the moon landing. He munches absentmindedly at his snack while he waits and shakes his head to clear it, drowsy after barely sleeping the night before thanks to nightmares.

When the broadcast starts, Lance leans forward so quickly he almost knocks the popcorn from his lap, and he helps as he straightens it. But soon enough the moon landing engages him, and he isn’t thinking about anything else…

A soft crunching sound disrupts his focus about ten minutes into the broadcast.

“Do you have to chew so loudly?” he asks.

“I could ask you the same question,” Pidge retorts.

“Yeah, well—” Lance cuts himself off as he finally processes her presence. The moon landing forgotten, he snaps his head around to stare at her.

Her eyes are fixed with rapt attention on the television screen, but while he watches she reaches to take a handful of popcorn from the bowl in his lap and munches on the kernels one by one. She glances sideways at him once her hand is empty, raising an eyebrow at him, and says, “What?”

“Would it kill you to knock?” Lance demands.

“No,” Pidge admits, “but surprising you like this is fun.”

“Oh, really?” He smirks, well-aware he looks impish when he does. “Then how would _you_ like it if I find wherever you make your house or your _nest_ or whatever and break in without telling you, Pidge?”

Pidge shrugs. “You’re welcome to try if you find it,” she says.

“Oh, I _plan_ to,” Lance says, though he has no idea how he’ll follow through with this particular promise without knowing the first place to look.

Well, if they can get three men to the moon…

“Yeah, I’d like to see you try finding something that doesn’t exist,” Pidge challenges with a giggle.

Lance scowls and pushes the bowl towards her. She takes it, a triumphant smirk on her face, and returns to watching the moon landing.

He follows suit within a few seconds, his irritation fading in favor of the wish to enjoy her company.

“I haven’t had a view of the night sky this good in a while,” he jokes.

Pidge’s eyes flick over to his face. “Really?” she says. “But the screen is so…grainy! Look at all that _static_.”

Lance snorts. “No, Pidge, not really. But…well, I’ve been living in cities for so long that I haven’t seen as many stars as I did back home.”

In a different place, and in a different time.

“Not since the war, anyway,” Lance concedes. “That might be…one of the only things I miss about it.”

Pidge elbows him in the side. “Find a place with less lights,” she suggests.

“I’ll have to one day,” Lance says, sighing, “but I like living in a city. I’m surrounded by people, and it never gets too quiet.”

“No one said you have to _stay_ , Lance,” Pidge retorts.

Lance rolls hie eyes. “Well, if you can come and go without warning, then I can also assume that you think I should live in the middle of nowhere.”

“That would be convenient for me,” Pidge says.

“What? Why?”

“Because I wouldn’t have to sift through so many souls to find yours,” she explains with a shrug. When he frowns at her, she quickly adds, “Most human souls look the same from a distance!”

“Ah, that makes perfect sense,” Lance says ironically, annoyance flaring anew.

“What is your problem?” Pidge asks. “You’ve been irritable and unpleasant since I got here!”

Lance stiffens his shoulders as a sudden anger fills him with a heat he doesn’t usually associate with Pidge. “Maybe it’s because I’m tired of seeing you at random and _unannounced_.”

“I already explained _why_ —”

“Yes, I know, but it’s not exactly an explanation I _like_.” He turns his back to her, fuming, and before she can argue, he forces his anger down and instead says, “Look, I _know_ this isn’t ideal at all, but—”

“Let’s just pretend that it is,” Pidge interrupts, cautiously resting a hand on his shoulder. When he glances at her with an eyebrow raised, she says, “Please, Lance?”

He sighs and rolls his eyes, but grumbles, “Fine. I can pretend.”

Somehow, despite the ghost of their argument, the main source of tension, haunting them, they return to watching the moon landing in peace. They cheer together as the probe touches down on the moon’s surface. Pidge even throws her arms around his neck, her laughter filling his ears and his chest with warmth.

It’s a sharp contrast from before, but he still enjoys the feeling of her small body leaning into his.

“You know,” Pidge says when she finally pulls away from him - after too much and too little time spent in his arms, “the astronauts landing on the moon are pilots.”

“So…?” Lance raises an eyebrow at her.

“ _So_ have you ever thought of doing something like that?”

“Landing on the moon?” Lance says, the very words making his heart pound.

“Going into space,” Pidge clarifies, nodding. “I, well, much as I love flying - and as high as I can go - I’ve never breached the Earth’s atmosphere or escaped its gravity.” She grins. “But shuttles can.”

“Pidge,” Lance says with a chuckle, “are you saying _you_ want to go to space?”

With a wide smile on her face, Pidge opens her mouth, but before she can reply the sharp ring of Lance’s telephone interrupts her.

“Oh,” Lance says, “I think that’s Hunk. He promised to call after the broadcast ended. I’m sure he’ll have a lot to say about the shuttle…” He rolls his eyes but grins as he shoots up and into the kitchen to answer the phone, Pidge trailing behind him curiously. “Hello?” he says into the receiver.

“Hi, Lance,” Hunk says, voice coming in full of static.

“You enjoy the moon landing?” Lance asks, leaning against the kitchen counter. He grins at Pidge, who stands in the doorway with her arms crossed, waiting for him.

“I did, but…” Hunk sighs, and Lance straightens, worried. “I have some news.”

“What?” Lance says. “What’s going on?”

“Uh, well, my…grandpa died.”

Lance’s levity vanishes as his heart plummets, and he wonders, pitching his voice low so that Pidge can’t hear him, “Do you want me to come up or something?”

He does some quick (or as quick as he can manage) mental math, trying to figure out if he has enough money saved for a plane ticket, but—

“You don’t have to, Lance,” Hunk tells him without hesitation.

“What?” Lance says. “Why not? I wouldn’t want you to be alone for your grandpa’s funeral.”

To his amazement, Hunk laughs. “Lance, the funeral was a few days ago, and…my sister and her family are staying with me for another week.”

“Oh,” Lance says numbly. “Why didn’t you call me sooner?” For some reason, he forgot that Hunk is newer to immortality than he is, that he still has close family members living and breathing.

“I lost the man that raised me, Lance,” Hunk reminds him. “I wasn’t exactly up to making a phone call, even if you are my best friend and…the only one who really knows about…the _other_ problem.”

Lance chuckles. “Yeah, well, how are you guys holding up?”

“Better now, I think,” he says, but then he sighs heavily. “My sister’s worried about me now, since Grandpa lived with me. She thinks I’ll get lonely or something and wants me to move to California with her.”

Lance runs his fingers through his hair. “You gonna do it?”

“No, I don’t think I will,” Hunk tells him. “I’ll need to make a clean break with them eventually.”

Lance’s heart sinks, all too familiar with that need. “Already?”

“Yeah, I’m not sure I can handle explaining to them why I don’t have any gray hairs—”

“Hair dye, obviously.”

“—or wrinkles—”

“Have you _seen_ the cosmetics they put out nowadays?”

“—or any other signs of aging. Also, I haven’t gotten so much as a cold in over ten years, Lance. That’s just…so _weird_.”

Lance smiles. “Man, I’ve been dealing with this since the war.”

“World War Two?”

He laughs. “Cuban Independence.”

Hunk whistles. “Are you saying you’re not used to not getting sick? Because that’s a pretty nice perk.”

“It is,” Lance agrees, throwing a glance over his shoulder towards the kitchen doorway. He can distantly hear noises floating in from the living room and wonders if Pidge turned his television back on to flip through channels. “Though I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

“Me neither,” Hunk says, “but… _does_ it get better?”

Lance shifts his feet and confesses, “Not really, but you get used to it. And hey, eventually you make friends that you can trust and that will…stick.” He can just barely see Pidge’s back from where he stands in the kitchen, and as if she senses him looking at her, she turns to glance over her shoulder, eyebrow arched in question.

Lance smirks, and Pidge pouts, looking annoyed, and returns her attention to the television.

“So…you met anyone else like us?” Hunk asks him, jerking Lance from a daydream.

He shakes his head to clear it, then replies, “Yeah, actually, I have.”

“Really?” Hunk sounds so comically surprised that it makes Lance laugh.

“Yeah, I met Keith during the war.”

“Cuban Independence?”

“World War Two.”

Hunk chuckles. “Man, you’ve been all over the place.”

“Not as much as Keith has,” Lance admits. He rubs his faces and continues, “We didn’t get along at first, but I feel bad for him. He never knew his mom, and his dad died at the same time that _he_ would’ve.” He taps his fingers on the kitchen counter, louder than the television in the living room. “At least he has Shiro.”

“Who?”

“Shiro?” Lance says. “Oh, ‘Shiro’ is Keith’s nickname for Takashi Shirogane. You ever heard of him?”

“No,” Hunk says, “but it sounds Japanese…”

“Yeah, well, he retired not long after the war - and before you ask, I mean World War Two - but he survived a plane crash that should’ve killed him in the twenties.” Lance frowns at his feet, wondering where Keith and Shiro are these days, if they’re still together or if the reality of life separated them like it did him and Hunk.

Sometimes Lance regrets losing contact with Keith. Idly he wonders if he’s still in the Air Force, or if he watched the moon landing too…

“This is actually kind of comforting,” Hunk says. “I’m glad I’m not the only one confused by this.”

“Hey,” Lance protests, “at this point I’m a professional at immortality. Really, I haven’t nearly died since the forties!”

Hunk laughs. “I’m so relieved to be learning at the feet of a master.”

Lance snorts but says, “I have much to teach you, my pupil.”

“This time it’ll have to wait,” Hunk tells him. “My niece is trying to get my attention.”

“You’re hanging up on me?” Lance gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “After all this time?”

“I’ll call you again after my sister leaves?”

“You’d better,” Lance says, and before Hunk can hang up, he quickly adds, “Just so you know, I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Lance,” Hunk says.

“Enjoy your time with your family, Hunk,” Lance reminds him while he absentmindedly winds the phone chord around a finger. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I will,” Hunk promises.

The phone line clicks shut when Hunk finally hangs up, and Lance follows suit.

He rests his forehead against the wall, suddenly conscious of how _drained_ of energy he feels. His limbs threaten to weigh him down, and where he was hungry before Hunk’s call, his appetite is gone.

“Great,” he says, but he opens his refrigerator anyway, bending down to inspect the contents. “Pidge!” he calls. “You want anything to eat or did you fill up on popcorn?”

He hums and reaches for the carton of eggs, thinking that the smell of them frying might be enough to tempt him. He frowns when Pidge doesn’t answer and peeks into the living room.

The television is still on, the screen playing a movie he doesn’t recognize, but the room is otherwise empty. His frown deepening and his heart growing heavier with dread, Lance checks every room in the small apartment, but it only confirms what he suspected from the moment he didn’t spot her.

Pidge is gone again, and he can’t even begin to guess when he’ll next see her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> believe it or not, i was channeling my Inner Arab Auntie when writing that first scene
> 
> ~~"do you want to meet my son??" is literally a question i've been asked jjapoijdpsidjpfs~~


	8. liftoff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> epiphany
> 
> "search your feelings. you know it to be true"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WELL i'm sorry for the wait. also can you tell i'm getting lazier with the chapter titles and summaries or is there enough plausible deniability on my part??
> 
> ANYWAY i'm sure you'll enjoy this chapter (despite the opportunity i take to poke fun at the '80s Voltron character designs) ~~or your money back~~ ;)

“…which is why I’m _never_ growing my beard out ever again,” Hunk explains.

Lance laughs as he lifts the lid on the pot of water to check if it’s boiling. He’d called Hunk for advice after ruining yet another attempt to cook something more complex than spaghetti, yet now he’s _cooking spaghetti_ again since Hunk sidetracked their conversation in favor of recounting an incident at work.

“I mean, you have a really long time to change your mind,” Lance points out pragmatically once he dumps the pasta into the boiling water.

“I don’t think you understand how awful it is when _your face_ is caught in something it should _not_ be caught in,” Hunk retorts. “Sure, you’ve been at this longer than I have, but I’ve never seen you with anything more than a shadow.”

Lance rubs his stubbly cheek and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, fine, so what if I like to be clean-shaved? You try trekking through Europe for God knows how long and see if you like growing a beard after that.”

“Wait,” says Hunk, “that _happened_ to you?”

“Like I told you,” Lance says while he stirs the simmering marinara sauce, “I’ve been around a while. I’ve learned the value in…experimenting.” He runs his fingers through his hair, longer than he’s ever grown it.

That’s something he regrets, this silly haircut that trims his hair short in the front but leaves it long enough in the back that it uncomfortably sticks in his shirt collar. He’s already planning on visiting the barber next time he has a Saturday off from work.

He doesn’t realize that Hunk is talking until he turns the knob on the stove down. “What did you say?”

Hunk repeats, “You seen Star Wars yet?”

Lance twists the phone chord around his finger. “No,” he says. “I haven’t seen it.” He taps his foot and laughs. “I want to though, and if it comes recommended with someone as fine a taste as you, it must be good.”

Hunk chuckles and says, “I haven’t recommended it yet.”

“Then why are you bringing it up?”

“It seems like something you’d like,” he tells Lance.

“Really,” Lance says. “I’ll watch it eventually, but I’ve been saving it.”

“For what?” Hunk wonders.

“For…someone to watch it with,” he says with a nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh?” Lance hears the smirk in Hunk’s voice as he says, “Got anyone in mind?”

“Actually yes, I do,” Lance says, and he can’t help grinning as Pidge’s smile comes to mind. But his face falls as he remembers how long it’s been since he last saw her, how _abrupt_ her departure was.

“So tell me about her,” Hunk says. “Any chance we’ve met?”

Lance swallows his laughter at the question but manages to lie, “I don’t think so.”

He’s not sure what holds him back from talking about Pidge, and with Hunk of all people. Hunk, who _also_ knows Pidge.

“She’s a friend of mine that I haven’t seen in a while,” Lance explains in what he hopes is a nonchalant voice.

“You sure she’s not a bit _more_ than that?” Hunk teases.

Lance frowns and stares into the vat of spaghetti sauce. “I’m positive,” he says.

“You know,” Hunk muses, “I always kind of did wonder why you never dated in college, considering you used to flirt with a lot of the girls on campus.”

Lance leans against the kitchen counter and covers his face, as if Hunk is there to see his shame. “You don’t have to remind me,” he grumbles.

“And I guess now that I know you’re kind of… _immortal_ ,” Hunk continues, “I understand.”

“Right.”

“But there’s no reason you shouldn’t try to pursue someone if you like them, right?” Hunk says cheerfully. “Sure, it’ll be hard, but maybe you’ll get to a point of understanding and you can _tell_ her about your dilemma.”

“Thanks for the encouragement,” Lance grits out, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“Lance, man, I know this sucks—”

“You _think_?”

“—but honestly? I think it could be worth it.”

Lance sighs and runs his fingers through his disastrous hair. “Exactly how many women have you tried to woo since you became immortal, Hunk?”

“Uh…none,” Hunk admits. 

Lance smirks, though he doesn’t feel amused at all. “So while I might have some fun flirting every once in a while, I will not be wooing anyone anytime soon. Get it?”

“Yeah, fine, I get it,” Hunk says. “This _is_ kind of a weird situation.”

“Oh, definitely,” Lance says, rolling his eyes. “And for the record, Pidge is my friend and I’m not interested in her like _that_.”

“Sure you’re—wait, why does the name ‘Pidge’ sound so familiar?”

Lance’s eyes widen. “Uh, I have no idea, but my spaghetti is done cooking so I have to go.”

“Oh, sure,” Hunk says, though he sounds confused. “Good night, L—”

Lance slams the phone onto the hook with a ring that echoes through his kitchen. Then he sags, burying his face in his hands and unsure if he wants to laugh or cry. Both might be appropriate, he thinks, but one isn’t desirable.

He tries not to think about Pidge in the time between meetings, but it’s an endeavor doomed to failure. She’s the first thing on his mind when he wakes and the last thing he thinks of as he falls asleep, even when he doesn’t see her.

And even just the memory of her smile puts this odd little flutter in his stomach, and he can just remember the feeling of her arms around his neck when they watched the moon—

The pot of spaghetti boiling over interrupts Lance’s perfect daydream. 

* * *

Lance turns the tape over in his hand again, examining the description and art on the back of the case. He taps his foot, considering this movie and the other two on display beside it.

“Do you need any help, sir?” the video store clerk asks Lance in a tremulous voice, not for the first time. He’s a pimply teenage boy and has his hands clasped together; it’s either his first day working…or Lance is lingering in the store long enough to make him nervous.

“No, I think I’m done,” Lance tells him as he grabs all three tapes off the shelf and walks to the counter.

The manager rings him up, his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he scans each tape, but Lance freezes a pleasant smile onto his face even as he slides a decent amount of cash towards him.

“Enjoy your movies,” says the manager.

“Oh,” Lance says, “I will.” He’s been looking forward to watching these movies for _years_ …

Lance walks back to his car from the video store with a spring in his step and a bag swinging from his elbow, grinning in anticipation. He’ll watch the first movie tonight, then save the second for tomorrow, and the third—

He halts right outside an arcade after his eyes catch on a familiar face inside, poised in front of the Space Invaders machine.

“Pidge,” he breathes.

She’s not wearing glasses, he notices, and her hair is cut in a way that her bangs fall over her forehead. She furrows her eyebrows in concentration as her hands move over the game’s controls. And the longer Lance looks, the more easily he can spot the minute changes in her mouth, how the corners turn up into the start of a grin, or how it becomes a flat line, like she made a mistake while playing.

Lance changes tack and enters the arcade, the din inside noisier and more compact than even the sound of traffic out. He plunges through a crowd of teenagers gathered around the Pac-Man machine, grin widening the closer he gets to Pidge.

But he pulls up short, hesitating. Why did she come to Miami to play _Space Invaders_? Why didn’t she come to _him_?

His heart sinks as he wonders if maybe she doesn’t want to see him after all, if that’s why he hasn’t turned on a kitchen light to find her eating out of his refrigerator.

Then again…

Lance smirks and approaches Pidge from behind, stopping only when he’s close enough to lean down to mutter into her ear, “You come here to space out?”

Pidge jumps, arms flailing, and spins around with wide eyes. Aliens shoot down her last ship, game over declared with big, bold letters, but she only stares at him.

Pidge throws her arms around Lance, nearly knocking him over with the force of her embrace. He laughs as he catches her against him, savors the warmth - both hers and what fills his chest - and breathes in her sweet scent.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ve been so busy - the more people that live, the more people die - and I saw this arcade on my way to your apartment and I just—”

“Pidge,” Lance interrupts, pulling away from her, “you have no idea how happy I am to see you.”

She grins and retorts, “Want a bet?” Her hands slide up his back and tangle in his hair, and she raises an eyebrow at him. “What did you do to your hair?”

Lance flushes, and he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s _in style_ , Pidge,” he tells her.

“Oh, well, I think the style is stupid,” Pidge says, though that assertion doesn’t stop her from playing with the longer strands in the back.

“You’re wearing a _green jumpsuit_ ,” Lance argues, gesturing at her. “That’s in style too!”

“I need to blend in,” Pidge says. “Also, I almost didn’t recognize you with that hair.”

He rolls his eyes and asks, “Would you like to cut it for me then?”

“If I cut it, it would look so much worse, but…I would love to see you to a barber.” She smirks at him.

“If you hate it so much, then why are you still playing with it?”

Pidge’s fingers still. “So the sooner I stop, the sooner you’ll cut it all off?”

Lance frowns at her. “Wait, hold on—”

Pidge then steps out of his arms and says, “It’ll be worth it.”

Before he can think up a suitable retort, he catches sight of her final score in Space Invaders flashing on the screen and snorts. “Oh, Pidge,” he says, shaking his head disparagingly and pointing.

“What?” she says, turning to see what he indicates. When she notices, she crosses her arms and grumbles, “You _startled_ me.”

“Yes, but Pidge,” Lance says as he approaches the machine, “this is pathetic.”

Pidge rolls her eyes and retorts, “As if _you_ can do any better.”

“Actually, I can.” Lance flashes her a smirk when he fishes a quarter from his pocket and inserts it into the slot.

The game play starts, blasting them with music and sound effects and washing out the background noise of the rest of the arcade. He holds one hand poised over the button to shoot and another over the joystick.

Pidge watches him play with an odd raise of an eyebrow, an expression that strikes Lance as almost _critical_. It makes him self-conscious, a flush rising to his face, and he can’t help trying to show off.

It results in him losing all of his fighters after only a few levels.

Lance sags, propping his elbows on the machine and burying his face in his hands while Pidge laughs at him.

“Oh, you showed me, Lance,” she says.

Lance pouts and retorts, “You distracted me.”

“By standing here and watching?” Pidge says with another chuckle. “I thought you liked my attention. You’re always complaining I don’t visit enough.”

“Yeah, well—”

He’s saved the task of coming up with an excuse when she points to the bag hanging from his elbow. “What did you buy?”

“I bought a few movies,” he tells her. “I’m going to watch the first one tonight.” He smiles at her, heart pounding, and wonders, “Care to watch it with me?”

Pidge seems to consider, frowning and tapping her chin, but then a slow grin stretches its way across her face. “I think I have some time.”

“Great!” Lance says. He grabs her by the wrist and leads her out of the arcade. “As soon as I drop these tapes off at my car though, I have some more shopping to do.” He flashes her a grin. “You want to tag along?”

“That depends,” Pidge says. She takes the bag from his arm and peeks inside. After reaching in and pulling a tape out, she reads, “ _The Empire Strikes Back_?”

“Yeah!” Lance says cheerfully. “I’ve heard they’re really good. Good story, _awesome_ special effects, and—”

“Wait, does this take place in space?”

“In a galaxy far, far away,” he says, his arms outstretched while a wild hope that he gets to share something else with her fills him

Pidge narrows her eyes at him, then again looks at the tape. “I want to watch this.”

“Uh, well, that one is the _second_ movie in the trilogy,” Lance tells her. He takes back the tape and bag from her and fishes inside for the first movie. “This is the first one.”

“Huh.” Pidge scans the description on the back. “Do you like them?”

Lance admits, “I haven’t seen them yet. I was waiting to watch them with, well…with you.” His cheeks are warm as the words escape his lips, but he resists the urge to tug the collar of his turtleneck to cover his face.

“And you want to wait _longer_?” Pidge demands.

“Look, it’s my _one_ day off this week,” Lance explains, “and I’m in need of a jacket! I promise that as soon as I find one I like”—for some reason that earns him a skeptical eye roll—”we’ll go home and watch the movie and you can have me all to yourself.”

Pidge’s face reddens and she averts her eyes from his as she retorts, “Who said anything about wanting _you_ when I can watch a movie called _Star Wars_?”

“I see how it is, Pidge,” Lance says, heading back down the street and entering a shop at random. When Pidge follows, he adds, “And since you care more about the movie than you do about _me_ \- your best friend of almost a _century_ \- I think I deserve a shopping _spree_.”

Pidge elbows him in the side. “Don’t you dare,” she says, then she frowns. “Who said you’re my best friend?”

Lance pauses halfway to a rack of coats, turning to face her with his heart sinking. “Well, you’re…kind of mine? Or, one of mine,” he amends quickly. “I wouldn’t want to forget Hunk, of course.”

Pidge stares at him, then nods. “You’re mine too, Lance.”

The air feels charged with meaning, the affirmation making his blood rush…or that might just be the sensation of Pidge’s eyes on his face.

Lance opens his mouth to say something - he isn’t sure what - but before he can a store clerk approaches and asks, “Can I help you?”

“No, we’re good,” Lance tells him once he tears his gaze away from Pidge. When the store clerk leaves, he clears his throat and says, “You want to help me look?”

“Sure…” Pidge says, eying the shop’s interior with something like suspicion. “Just a jacket?”

“Yeah, just a…jacket,” he trails off as Pidge leaves him, heading deeper into the store. He rolls his eyes, considering the rack of brightly colored coats, before following.

Pidge shoves coats and jackets aside with a ruthless efficiency, pausing every few to check the tags. She’s so focused on the task that Lance ends up watching her shop for him longer than he shops for himself.

“We’re not in that much of a hurry, Pidge,” he points out when she takes a fifth jacket off the rack.

“ _I_ am,” she says. She holds up the jacket, brown leather with a low collar and says, “I think you’d look good in this one.”

Lance takes the jacket from her and glances at the price tag. After he verifies that it’s within his budget, he shrugs it on.

It fits perfectly, practically molding to his shoulders without being too tight. And when he examines himself in the mirror, flashing his reflection a smirk, he looks pretty damn good too.

“I was right,” Pidge says from beside him, her reflection speaking with her.

Lance wraps an arm around her shoulders. “You’re right a lot,” he tells her.

Pidge shrugs his arm off and steps away from him. “Now go pay for it so we can watch Star Wars,” she says.

“Good idea,” Lance says, rolling his eyes as he wanders towards the cashier.

Once they’re outside the shop, Pidge tucks her hand into the crook of his arm, a lady with her escort to a dance. And for all that she rushed him before, she concedes to his sedate pace while they return to his car.

Lance glances sideways at her and quips, “Are you sure you don’t want a jacket to go with that awful jumpsuit?”

“Oh, shut up,” Pidge retorts, blushing and scowling. “At least I don’t have a mullet.”

Lance runs his fingers through his hair and admits, “I thought it didn’t look bad until I had one.”

Pidge pokes him in the cheek. “Next time you want a risky haircut, ask me to model it for you.”

Lance somehow keeps himself from demanding what he really wants to know, why she’s almost never here when he wants her to be, but instead he wonders, “And how would you do that?”

“Simple,” Pidge says. She closes her eyes, face slack, but then opens them again and says, “Later.”

Lance frowns at her, curious, and picks up the pace until they’re in his car and he’s driving back to his apartment.

And of course, Pidge doesn’t wear a seatbelt.

It’s an odd car ride, especially when he remembers that Pidge can _fly_. But Pidge is curious about everything in the interior, opening and closing the glove compartment and fiddling with the radio until she figures out how to tune it to a different station.

And then she keeps changing stations, frowning at every new one.

“There’s so much static,” she tells him when an obnoxious crackle disrupts a song. “Is there something wrong with your antenna?”

Lance glances out the window towards the antenna. “I don’t think so?”

Pidge hums, gaze thoughtful, and after he parks outside his apartment building she inspects the antenna. Lance can’t tell what she’s doing, but a few minutes later she tells him to turn on his radio.

The sound clears up.

“Wow,” he says when she opens the passenger door. “You…fixed it. Thank you, Pidge.”

She smirks and says, “It was nothing, but now you don’t have to listen to static with your music.”

Lance gapes at her and follows her out of his car. “What kind of angel are you?” he asks on their way upstairs.

“An angel of death,” she tells him with a sideways glance. “I thought you knew this.” But then, when he reaches into his pocket for his keys, she rests her hand on his arm and says, “You want to see another trick I’ve learned watching humans?”

Lance blinks slowly at her. “Uh…”

She doesn’t wait for his reply, instead plucking a bobby pin from her hair - which spills from its bun and falls around her shoulders in a mesmerizing wave - and prying it apart. She inserts the pin into the locks, first the deadbolt then the knob, and within a few seconds of fiddling, she shoves the door open hard enough that it bounces off the wall inside.

Lance covers his face with his hand, incredulous and amazed. But his shoulders shake with laughter that insists on bursting from his chest.

“You’re amazing, Pidge,” he says when he’s done gasping for air. His heart pounds as the words leave his lips, but he means it.

Pidge stares at him as if he grew a second head. “I…I just broke into your house,” she points out. “You complained about me sneaking up on you last time.”

“Yeah, well, this time you had my permission,” Lance tells her as he finally steps past her and inside. She follows, and he locks the door behind them. “Besides, I snuck up on you at the arcade, so I think we’re even.”

“That’s generous of you,” Pidge says, rolling her eyes. But then she grins and takes both shopping bags from him, dropping the one containing his new jacket in favor of the videos.

“Wait,” Lance says, holding up his hand. When she glances at him, he says, “You promised to model a mullet for me, remember?”

Pidge sighs and admits, “I was hoping you’d forget that. Do you have a mirror?”

Lance guides her to the bathroom and flips on the lights. “Take your time,” he says and flashes her a smirk. “I can’t wait to see this.” He shuts the door on her and returns to the living room, whistling as he unwraps the plastic on his new tapes.

By the time he’s inserted the first into the VCR, Pidge clears her throat from behind him.

His eyes widen at the sight of Pidge…with a mullet.

Lance bursts into laughter so hard he doubles over, a hand on the television to brace himself against it. Tears sting at his eyes, and he brushes one away. When he sees Pidge cross her arms, though she bites her lip as if she too is trying not to laugh, he laughs even harder, gasping for air.

Pidge grumbles, “I’m glad you’re so amused.”

“Well, n-now I know why y-you were,” he grits out between giggles.

Pidge rolls her eyes and returns to the bathroom, then calls back, “I’m going to fix it.”

While he waits, Lance makes popcorn and turns off all the lights, and Pidge again emerges with her hair back in a brown bun at the back of her head. “How did you do that?” he asks her when she sits beside him on the sofa.

Pidge grabs a handful of popcorn and munches the kernels one by one. “I can alter certain aspects of my appearance at will,” she explains. “Mostly my clothes and my hair.”

“And you can make your wings disappear?”

“They’re not _gone_ ,” Pidge says, “just invisible.”

“So if I were to try touching them—”

“Don’t you dare,” Pidge cuts him off with a glare.

Lance, taken aback by her sudden ferocity, raises his hands. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. “It was just a…hypothetical.”

Pidge sighs and says, “I know. But no, you can’t really touch them unless they’re also visible.”

Lance raises an eyebrow at her. “That’s weird.”

She chuckles. “I know,” she says. “I obviously exist to make your life _weird_.”

“I mean, the one thing that coincided with the _other_ weird thing about my life is meeting you.” He elbows her in the side and smiles, hoping she knows - that she _understands_ \- how much she and her presence mean to him.

But instead of acknowledging his statement, she asks, “So are we going to talk or watch this movie?”

Lance rolls his eyes but presses ‘play’ on the VCR.

“Oh, great, I have to _read_ ,” Lance grumbles as soon as text crawls across the screen. But he ignores Pidge’s annoyed nudge, because something about the title music grabs his attention and fills his blood with excitement.

Beside him Pidge stiffens, and when he darts a glance at her face the television’s light illuminates a grin. She leans into him, blindly reaching for more popcorn, but when he passes her the bowl she doesn’t shift away.

Lance relaxes, basking in this atmosphere, both the sounds from the movie and Pidge’s crunching filling his ears. Her body is warm against his, and where sometimes it energizes him now it contents him. Her hair tickles his face, and he turns his head to press his chin to the crown of her head.

And while they watch, something about the image of the two suns hanging in the sky over Tatooine niggles at the back of Lance’s mind. It keeps him from focusing on the rest of the movie, until he remembers words Pidge spoke to him a long time ago, on a beach far, far away:

_And a billion sunsets happen every day._

Lance taps her shoulder, and when she turns to him, he quietly asks, “You remember the second time we met, on the beach?”

“You drowned, right?” Pidge quirks an inquisitive eyebrow at him.

Lance scoffs, “I _failed_ to drown, but that’s not relevant.”

“Oh?” Pidge smirks. “Then shall I tell you what I remember?”

“I’m all ears,” Lance tells her, his heart racing for a reason that he’s just shy of understanding.

“Well, you drowned and it was marked incorrectly in your file—”

“Can I see that, by the way?”

“—that you were to die. And no, you can’t; it’s confidential.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Of course it is, but please”—he rests a hand on her shoulder—”continue.”

“There was no one else on the beach, and before you got back to shore I spent some time collecting seashells.”

Lance stares at her. “Wait, really?”

Pidge nods and wraps her arms around her legs. “I returned them after a few days,” she says. “I don’t have anywhere to keep them.”

His mouth moves, and he’s not sure what he wants to say. “I…well, I can take you to Miami Beach right now and—”

“Lance,” she interrupts softly, meeting his eyes, “we don’t keep possessions like humans do.”

All he can think to say then is, “Well, that’s weird.”

“Maybe to you,” she says, smiling. “It really doesn’t bother me.”

“So that means I can’t give you a gift, or something?”

Pidge laughs, and he thinks the darkness masks her blush. “You can, but I wouldn’t be able to keep it.”

“But would you want to?”

She sighs in a way that makes goosebumps rise on his arms and all but whispers, “Yes. I’d ask you to hold onto it for me though.”

Lance smiles. “Then I guess that makes me special?”

Pidge groans and covers her face. “Oh, I told you that at the beach, didn’t I?”

“Oh, yes, you did,” Lance says cheerfully. “It’s a compliment I’ll take to my grave, which, if you’re right, won’t be swallowing me for a long time.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment at the time,” she points out, smacking his shoulder.

“Well, if you said it now, would it be?” He leans towards her, pleased when she doesn’t lean away, but less so when she turns his face with a finger.

“That would depend,” she says. “Now”—she turns back to the television screen—”weren’t we watching a movie?”

“Oh, yeah! But I forgot to tell you something about that scene.”

“What scene?” She points to the screen, where the _Millennium Falcon_ infiltrates the Death Star. “Have _you_ ever sneaked onto an enemy base?”

“Not personally, no,” Lance concedes, “but I meant a different scene. It reminded me of something you said at the beach.”

Pidge blinks at him. “What?”

Cautiously he takes one of her small hands in both of his, unfurling her fingers and idly tracing a line on the palm of her hand. It twitches, but she doesn’t pull away.

“I asked if you wanted to watch the sunset with me, but you said that a billion happen every day.” He keeps his gaze on their hands, doesn’t dare peek at her face.

“Oh, I…”

“I just finally understand what you meant.” He chuckles and raises his head to meet her wide eyes. “You’re fascinated enough with space travel, so of course you think there are places out there that have their own suns. But I’d still watch all the sunsets I can.”

Pidge exhales. “Even if you have a long life?”

Lance shrugs. “Each one is special, right? And, well, a sunset is both the most unique and the most mundane thing I’ve ever seen.”

A smile slowly splits Pidge’s face. “That’s…I’ve never thought about it like that before,” she says.

“Really?” Lance laughs. “Smart angel of death like you?”

“I don’t know everything,” Pidge tells him, rolling her eyes, “and even if I did, I wouldn’t necessarily think of everything in the same way that you do.”

“Think so?”

Pidge nods and laces their fingers together. Then she says, “I have to admit, I still think about that sunset, so maybe you’re right about this.”

“Oh, I’m—” he cuts himself off, the words that he tried to say - _oh, I_ _’m right about_ a lot _of things, Pidge!_ \- catching in his throat. Instead he stares at their hands, the way their fingers slot together, hers slender and pale and fitting perfectly between his.

_—in love with you._

“Lance?” Pidge’s prompt jerks him from his thoughts. When he finally glances up, she raises an eyebrow at him. “What were you saying?”

“I…have no idea,” he admits. “Uh, movie?”

Pidge frowns at him, looking skeptical, but she returns her attention back to the television.

But she doesn’t pull her hand away from his.

Lance holds his breath when Pidge leans into him again, her head resting against his shoulder with their joined hands in his lap. His arm goes numb under her weight, so he shifts it to wrap it around her instead.

He’s warm and comfortable and a goofy smile pushes at his lips, but nothing really changed within him. He loves Pidge now, and he’s starting to think he has for most of his life.

He’s known her for so long, but regret tints this sudden rush of emotion, for he doesn’t know her as well as he wants to. He doesn’t know what foods she likes, or if angels even need to eat. She likes Star Wars - judging from the rapt attention she pays the television while his wavers - but what else captures her interest? And though she rarely speaks of her family, it’s always with love and longing.

Lance needs to tell her, to let the words spill from his lips and into her ears, but instead he blurts, “Do angels need sleep?”

Pidge shifts against him. “Not really.”

“Not _really_?”

She shrugs and says, “I rest, but it’s maybe not what you’d consider _sleeping_.”

“Then…?”

“It’s more like a trance,” Pidge explains. She withdraws her hand from his - he frowns at that, disappointed - and turns to face him. “I’m still conscious, but I’m not as…aware.”

“Huh,” Lance says, then smirks. “Would I be able to sneak up on you in one of these trances?”

Pidge narrows her eyes at him, unimpressed, and retorts, “I would make you regret it if you did.”

Lance laughs, tapping the tip of her nose and says, “Then you’re not a morning person, are you?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” Pidge admits with a chuckle, “but no, probably not. Now, can we _please_ get back to the movie before I have to start rewinding scenes?”

Lance rubs his face to hide his smile. “Fine,” he says, “but just so you know, you’re missing out on some _exciting_ conversation with—”

Pidge elbows him in the side, and Lance grumbles, “Rude.”

“You started it by talking,” Pidge says. She pushes the empty popcorn bowl into his arms and adds, “If you’re bored, go make me some more popcorn.”

“As you wish,” Lance says, standing up and walking into the kitchen.

While he finds a pan and oil and turns on the stove, he listens to the movie playing in the living room. He can picture Pidge with her gaze fixed on the screen and smiles fondly to himself, for now pretending that she won’t leave this time.

It’s maddening to think that Lance can count every time they’ve met with only his fingers and still have a few to spare, yet he knows he loves her so completely, so absolutely, that seeing her every day for the rest of his long life would still not be enough.

Then again, his mother did always tell him he’s too dramatic.

The kernels pop in the pan, nearly drowning out the sound of the movie, and as he pours the hot popcorn into the bowl and returns to the living room to Pidge looking up at him and smiling, his chest tightens and it’s hard to smile back.

Lance falls asleep on the sofa, leaning against Pidge, when they’re halfway through _The Empire Strikes Back_. When sunlight shining in through the living room window wakes him in the morning, he’s lying down with his head on a pillow and with a blanket draped over his body.

His sleepy, sluggish mind is slow to process that he’s on the couch rather than in his bed. He rolls onto his side, frowning at the silent television screen with three tapes stacked on top of it. “Pidge?” he says, his voice cracking.

His phone rings, and Lance rubs his face and reluctantly throws the blanket aside and trudges into the kitchen to answer.

“Hello?” he says, only to catch sight of the clock and realize he’s hours late to work.

When he hangs up, he’s wide awake - despite the ache in his neck from sleeping on the sofa - and short a job, heavy of heart and alone again. And after a moment of considering, he calls Hunk.

“Hey, man,” he says without waiting for a greeting. “Is it weird that I miss your cooking almost as much as I miss your company?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this ended in a surprisingly cyclical way and this pleases me
> 
> also if you're wondering why i never reference music (even though i reference some other things...mostly movies) it's because i don't listen to much music anymore and kind of forgot that other people pay attention to that sort of thing so whoops?? sorry ;_;
> 
> per the usual, comments are love ~~and people telling me they enjoy this fic is literally why i'm posting it~~ <3


	9. drag force

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> new opportunities while life stands still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is 85% angst, 15% fluff, and 100% pining. you have been warned
> 
> but that 15% fluff?? ;)
> 
> enjoy!! <3

When Lance moves back to New York, his blood rushes with the tempo of the city. He lives fast, faster than he has in a while, and it’s almost enough to keep his mind off Pidge.

_Almost._

It’s a fresh start, a fresh distraction, and the city is both so different and exactly the same as it was when he left.

Hunk, for example, is new, and they slip back into their old routine from when they lived together during college. They’re almost like a married couple apart for a long time only to reunite…even to the point where Lance cleans the kitchen after Hunk cooks.

(Though never to his satisfaction, apparently.)

“Hey, Hunk,” Lance says one Saturday morning during breakfast. He plays with his food, pushing scrambled eggs, tomatoes, and potatoes around on his plate, and when Hunk looks at him he asks, “Do you think I’d make a good teacher?”

Hunk raises an eyebrow at him. “I don’t know,” he says. “Are you good with kids?”

Lance thinks back to his youth - his _true_ youth, to looking after his nieces and nephews. Running with them through the sand, reading books and embellishing stories for them, buying them pastries, stargazing and tracing constellations on the beach, watching them get married…

He shakes his head to clear it as he falls deeper into reminiscing and clears his throat when he notices Hunk staring at him with his brow furrowed. “Yeah, I guess I’m good with kids,” says Lance. “I mean, how much harder can teaching a classroom of seven-year-olds be than looking after my nieces and nephews?”

* * *

 

Lance eats his words on the second day of school, when one boy accuses another of stealing his _pudding cup_. He sits them down together during lunch, hoping they’ll talk it out - like he used to when his nephews fought as children - but has to force his temper down after the plaintiff bites the defendant.

“Whoa, hey, whoa!” Lance shouts as he pries the boys apart. “You’re not babies, so no using each other as teething rings!”

That remark earns him a bite too.

The third grade teacher with her class next door then intervenes, talking down both boys while Lance pouts and rubs the stinging red mark on his arm. “What happened?” she asks, turning to Lance.

“Well, Timmy here thinks Clark stole his pudding cup,” Lance explains, gesturing from one boy to the next.

“I don’t _think_ ,” Timmy protests, “I _know_.”

“I did _not_!” Clark retorts.

The other teacher - Lance remembers her name is Louise - frowns down at them with her hands on her hips. “Did you think maybe you _lost_ your pudding cup, Timmy?” she wonders.

Timmy crosses his arms and scowls. “No.”

“Why don’t you think about that now?”

Timmy scratches his head, seeming to consider her words, then says, “I don’t know where to look for it.”

Louise glances over her shoulder at Lance, a perfect brown eyebrow raised, and he jumps and tells Timmy, “I’ll help you look for it.” He walks towards the cubby holes lined up against the wall, beckoning for Timmy to follow him, and together they search around his belongings there and at his desk.

Timmy finds the missing pudding cup inside his desk. He holds it up for Lance to inspect and, without meeting his eyes, quietly says, “I…lost it.”

“That’s okay,” Lance says. “We all make mistakes, but you need to make up for this one too.”

Timmy’s gaze darts up to Lance’s face. “What do I do?” he asks, immediately followed by, “Are you going to tell my mom I bit Clark?”

Lance smiles. “Not if you apologize to Clark and promise not to do that again.”

Timmy is quick to apologize, and Clark, blessedly, is quick to forgive.

After Lance dismisses them for lunch, he and Louise trail behind them on the way to the cafeteria. “Thanks,” he tells her. “I’d like to say I had it handled, but—”

“You didn’t,” Louise says, flashing him a friendly smile. “I get that. My first year was the toughest too.”

Lance faces her. “How long have you been here?”

“This is my fourth year,” Louise says. Then she narrows her eyes at him. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met a man your age - or anyone, really - this enthusiastic about teaching seven-year-olds. What’s your secret?”

Lance laughs, but when she frowns he collects himself and says, “I don’t know. What’s the secret to everlasting life?” He chuckles at his own, very private joke again.

Though she continues to look confused, Louise eventually cracks a smile. “So…I have to find the secret for myself?”

“Oh, trust me,” Lance says, “if you’re meant to know, it’ll find you.”

* * *

 

Lance likes teaching. It keeps him busy, both in mind and in body, and eats away at much of his free time. If he’s not in the classroom, then he’s sitting at the kitchen table in his and Hunk’s apartment either planning lessons or grading papers, trying to decipher the penmanship of second graders.

He likes his coworkers too and happily takes part in birthday and holiday parties, cheerfully exchanging stories and gossip and both complaining and bragging about the students in his class. In his second year, he even gives warnings to the third grade teachers about students that were once his.

“Watch out for Timmy,” he tells Louise during lunch on the first day of his second year. “He bites.”

Louise laughs and says, “I think he’ll be all right so long as he can find his pudding cup.”

Unfortunately, children haven’t changed in the last century so refuse to give Lance a break.

“Let me get this straight,” Lance says after he catches Miranda with a brand spanking new Game Boy. “You brought it with you to school because your mom wouldn’t let you play it at _dinner_?”

Miranda nods sagely and says, “I got it for Christmas but haven’t beaten my brother’s high score yet.”

It takes all of Lance’s willpower not to roll his eyes, but he was a kid once (if a very long time ago) and can’t help blurting, “What game?”

Miranda, sensing an out - and oh will he disillusion her of that notion - grins and shows him a cartridge labeled “Space Invaders”.

Lance’s chest tightens as he reads the words, and feelings that he’s usually careful to push back threaten to overwhelm him. “Oh,” he manages to tell Miranda. “I like that game. I used to play it at an arcade.”

“Then can I—”

“No,” Lance says, trying to keep his voice stern. When Miranda’s face falls, he adds, “You can have it during recess and lunch, but _not_ during class. Deal?”

Miranda grins and practically shouts, “Deal!”

Lance can’t help laughing, her glee infectious and filling him with warmth, but he still keeps the Game Boy in his desk drawer till the end of the day.

On his way home from school, he stops by a store and buys a Game Boy and a few cartridges for it, including Space Invaders, and stays up late that evening trying to beat Pidge’s score from the arcade.

He’s surprised he can still recall the number.

Lance wonders what Pidge will think of a video game small enough to fit in her hands. He imagines her sitting in front of him, frowning in concentration as she frantically presses buttons to shoot down alien spaceships. He pictures himself teasing her every time she loses one of her ships before she finally passes him the device and dares him to do better.

He won’t, because he’ll be too distracted by the sense of her looking over his shoulder. Instead he’ll turn his head, lean in, and kiss—

The alarm clock on Lance’s bedside table blares. He groans and rolls over to click it off, then stuffs his face into his pillow and chases the remnants of the most pleasant dream he’s had in a while, imagining that the sweet scent she trails lingers in his nostrils.

Sometimes, Lance prefers the dreams to reality.

* * *

 

Sometimes, Lance prefers reality to the dreams, when his imagination twists his memories into something reminiscent yet unrecognizable. But he still wakes with his heart pounding, out of breath as if chased by a monster.

Nightmares are sporadic now, as long as it’s been since he fought in a war, but when they happen…

He falls, and Pidge isn’t there to catch him and fly him to safety. He stands on a precipice, and the wind tears at him with enough force that it pushes him to his death. He steps on an explosive, and when he wakes up he can’t find his own body.

Even worse are the ones he can’t remember, that leave him with a sense of dread that sits heavily in his stomach. Even worse are the ones where his and Pidge’s positions are reversed, where she has no wings and he fails to rescue her.

“Is it weird that I dream so much about dying?” he asks Hunk one evening, when they’re trying to make plans to watch a movie.

“That depends,” Hunk says. “Are they…memories? ‘Cause I sometimes dream about the accident that should’ve killed me…”

“Memories with some nasty plot twists,” Lance admits. He props his chin in a hand and clicks his pen.

“Well, maybe for you, it should be expected.”

Lance glances over at him “What do you mean?”

Hunk shrugs and says, “You’ve…lived through a lot more than I have, Lance. I mean, I get nightmares sometimes, but probably as much as anyone else, except for the car accident ones. Anxiety-induced exam dreams—”

“You’re a reputable engineer,” Lance says incredulously.

“—and falling dreams are pretty standard for me. Although, I _am_ afraid of heights…”

“And tests?” Lance says when Hunk trails off thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I hate those,” Hunk says, shuddering. “Anyway, considering you - and I - _can_ _’t_ die, I think it kind of makes sense that you’d dream about death a lot.”

“So basically,” Lance muses, “my subconscious is giving me experiences that I won’t actually have?”

“Exactly!” Hunk says with a snap of his fingers. “Pretty rotten of it though in my opinion.”

“Yeah, my subconscious is a jerk,” Lance whines. “Why can’t it give me _better_ experiences I’m missing out on?”

“Such as…?” Hunk raises an eyebrow at him.

Lance’s mind immediately drifts to Pidge, to seeing her daily, to kissing her in greeting, to waking up next to her, to making love—

“You know what?” Lance says, hoping that Hunk won’t comment on his hot face. “Maybe it won’t give me the _good_ experiences because I’m going to live a long enough life to have all of them!”

Hunk narrows his eyes at him, then grins impishly and wonders, “So who were you thinking about?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Lance grumbles, folding his arms and resting his chin on them. “I’m definitely missing out anyway.”

Hunk sighs, then, sensing Lance’s disinclination to talk, says, “So are you still up to watch a movie tonight, or would you rather stay in and feel sorry for yourself?”

“Depends on what movie,” Lance tells him, gladly seizing the change in topic. He sits up and stares at the spelling tests and multiplication tables he still has to grade, then stuffs them into folders to put away.

“What do you think about _Schindler_ _’s List_?” Hunk asks. “Some people at work were talking about it and thought it was good.”

Lance leans back in his chair, balancing it on the back legs. “What’s it about?”

“The Holocaust.”

“Pass,” Lance says, falling back down with a thud that shakes the chair. “Been there, done that.”

Hunk raises a skeptical eyebrow at him. “I thought you were a pilot?”

Lance scowls. “Okay, fine, not _exactly_ that, but it’s close enough.” He clicks his pen again and admits, “I’ve never really liked World War Two movies. It’s too weird to watch something I lived through.”

“I can kind of see why,” Hunk concedes. He smiles at Lance and adds, “Do you have any ideas then?”

Lance shrugs, then reconsiders his teacher version of homework. “I have a lot of work to do,” he says. “Maybe tomorrow night instead?”

Hunk doesn’t respond immediately, instead seeming to consider Lance, but then he says, “Sounds good to me.”

Lance smiles gratefully and retrieves his papers, hoping they’ll distract him from everything that suddenly threatens to crush him.

* * *

 

Lance watches _Apollo 13_ in the middle of summer, when he has off from work but Hunk does not.

Usually he’s not pathetic enough to sit in a movie theater alone, but after determining that Pidge would love _this_ particular film, he decided it would be worth it.

He also might’ve been hoping that she’d arrive in the middle of it, announcing her presence by reaching into his large bucket of popcorn. Maybe their hands would brush and he’d have the courage to interlace their fingers like last time.

But most of the movie passes without incident, and someone tells Lance off a few times for fidgeting and making his seat squeak. For the most part he ignores them, but on the third time Lance loses his patience and spins around, a retort on the tip of his tongue, only to freeze at the sight of a familiar face.

“Pidge?” he says, heart thumping with a wild hope.

It’s not Pidge.

Of _course_ it’s not Pidge, but a young man that bears a strong resemblance to her down to the round glasses perched on his nose. And in the faint light from the projector, a smirk is plainly visibly on his face.

He disappears as Lance blinks.

Lance stares at the spot where he sat, blinking furiously until his eyes water. Did he _imagine_ seeing a man that looks like Pidge, the darkness in the theater playing tricks on his eyes?

After a few minutes, Lance gives up and turns back to the screen, scowling with his arms crossed. He tries to focus on the movie again, to see the stunning survival of the astronauts, but his mind buzzes with questions about the face he just saw.

He’s imagining things, he decides. The immortality is finally getting to him and he’s cracked. It’s only a matter of time before—

“You should consider drinking a diet soda,” someone says from beside him, right before slurping on Lance’s drink. “You look pretty good for your age, all things considered, but just because you’re immortal doesn’t mean your health can’t suffer.”

Lance turns to glare at the man that looks like Pidge. “Can I help you?” he asks, not bothering to mask his irritation. Then, he snatches his drink from him. “And this theater doesn’t stock up on _Diet Sprite_.”

The man shrugs, looking unbothered by Lance’s reaction, and points to the screen. “Is this anything like how it actually happened?”

Lance admits, “Don’t know. I didn’t follow the news about it very closely.”

“Ah, right.” The man nods sagely. “Too depressing, I imagine, since you watched the Apollo 11’s moon landing with my sister the year before.”

Lance squeezes the paper cup in his hand, the plastic lid crunching. His heart pounds, and the sick feeling of fear makes his blood run cold. “Is Pidge all right?” he asks this man, her brother.

“She’s fine,” the man says, waving a dismissive hand. “To be honest, it’s been about a year - I _think_ \- since I saw her, but there’s very little that can hurt us.”

Lance pinches his eyes shut, tries not to think that _very little_ isn’t the same as _nothing_.

“Sweet of you to worry though,” Pidge’s brother says with a smile - and one that looks genuine. “Tells me a bit more about what kind of man you are.”

“Uh…thanks,” Lance says, for lack of anything better.

If Pidge was any other woman, if she was human rather than an angel of death, he might’ve known what to do to charm a family member, to convince them that he loves her and means her well, but this…well, Lance is far out of his league here.

“I guess I should introduce myself as something other than ‘Pidge’s brother’,” he continues as if he hadn’t heard Lance. He holds his hand out to him and says, “My name is Matt.”

Lance accepts his hand warily and says, “The name’s Lance.”

“Nice to meet you, Lance,” Matt says with a fleeting smile. “Guess I should get to the point now.”

“Right…”

“I’m going to be honest with you, Lance:  Pidge shouldn’t be seeing you _nearly_ as often as she is. Actually, she shouldn’t have seen you at all after she first tied your soul to her essence.”

Lance admits, “I…had a feeling that was the case.”

“Oh, good, you’re catching on.” Matt pats Lance’s arm, then helps himself to some popcorn. “I mean, _I_ haven’t seen the men tied to my essence in…well, it’s easily been over a century for the elder one.”

Lance narrows his eyes at him, for something about that teases his memory. “Uh…Keith?”

Matt’s eyes widen. “Yes, actually,” he says. “You’ve met?”

“Yeah, during the war,” Lance says. “He was a pilot too.” He frowns. “I haven’t seen him since then either. Is he doing okay?”

Matt laughs and says, “He’s as fine as someone like him - or like you - can be.”

Lance grumbles, “What kind of answer is that?”

“The only answer you’re going to get,” says Matt. “It’s privileged information, and since, again, I haven’t seen Keith since he ascended to immortality, it’s about as much as I know too.”

Lance rolls his eyes but accepts that, instead wondering, “Why are you here? And why can’t Pidge tell me any of this herself?”

“That’s the thing, Lance,” Matt says, his eyes softening as he frowns. “Pidge _can_ _’t_ tell you; we’re not allowed to make friends with humans. Sure, we can walk among them easily enough so long as we keep our wings hidden, but making friends? Well”—he laughs sardonically—”it’s almost a conflict of interest since we have to reap your souls.”

“But I’m immortal,” Lance points out. “That’s how I met Pidge in the first place.”

Matt hums and nods. “Yes, but your immortality is temporary.”

“What?”

“Yeah, it has an expiration date. Until you fulfill whatever fate has planned for you, you stay alive, and then…” Matt trails off with a pointed look at him.

“Pidge collects my soul,” Lance guesses, a sick feeling twisting in his gut. “It can’t be you, or any other angel of death.”

“You got it.” Matt salutes him, almost mockingly. “And when that happens, and if Pidge is attached to you emotionally, it’s going to hurt her a lot more than it hurts you.”

Lance swallows, leaning forward and burying his face in his hands. He can’t hear the movie anymore, not for the blood rushing past his ears and his heart dropping into his stomach. His breath comes shorter, and he fights to keep it in his control as he processes Matt’s words.

Matt rests his hand on Lance’s shoulder and says, “I’m sorry, Lance. It’s…well, Pidge would be pissed at me for interfering, but she’s my sister.”

“I understand,” Lance says, or tries to. His voice is muffled by his fingers, and the lump in his throat seems to block the words, make them sound almost strangled.

“Good,” Matt says. “Good…”

When the credits finally roll, Lance barely notices until Matt taps his arm. He slowly gets to his feet, stretching and hoping that anyone that catches sight of his face will think his eyes are red because the movie’s ending moved him to tears.

Matt walks out of the theater with Lance, even reminds him to throw out his trash, and after a block of silence, he says, “You were right, by the way.”

“About what?” Lance asks, not sure he wants to know - or that he cares to.

“Pidge would love that Game Boy.” Matt waves and offers him a sad smile before vanishing into thin air.

Lance doesn’t stare at that patch on the sidewalk. Instead he rushes to catch the subway and avoids thinking about how he’ll never see Pidge again, tries not to dwell on the tightness in his chest and the heat in his eyes.

He waits till he gets home to break down, away from the sight of strangers, and where Hunk can lie to him and tell him it’ll be fine without knowing the full story.

Lance is starting to think he doesn’t know the full story either.

* * *

 

Lance spends all his pocket cash on renting the corniest movies he can carry from the nearby Blockbuster. When he returns home, he plants himself in the living room and starts playing them one after the other.

He lives vicariously through fictional characters. It helps almost as much as it hurts.

“ _As you wish_?” Lance grumbles incredulously at the screen while he watches _The Princess Bride_. “You have _got_ to be kidding me!”

The front door opens then, admitting Hunk who’s just come home from work. Lance barely spares him a glance, instead glaring at the television screen and muttering, “ _As you wish_. What’s so romantic about _that_?”

“Uh, Lance?” Hunk calls from the door as he approaches. “How long have you been sitting there?”

“An hour,” Lance lies.

Hunk picks up the two video cases lying on the floor. “Are you sure about that?”

Lance averts his eyes and admits, “I got up to use the bathroom an hour ago.”

Hunk sighs and turns off the television.

“Hey!” Lance says, throwing a pillow at him. “I was watching that!”

Hunk catches the pillow and tosses it aside before sitting on the floor beside Lance. “You know,” he says, “you’re lucky you’ve hit this depression of yours in the summer when you don’t have work.”

“Like there’s ever a good time to feel like shit,” Lance retorts, slouching.

“That’s fair,” Hunk agrees, “but what’s this about, Lance? You’ve been like this for a couple weeks now, since you went to watch _Apollo 13_ \- _without_ me, I might add.”

Lance snorts and wraps his arms around his legs. “The movie affected me, Hunk.”

Hunk rests his hand on his shoulder and says, “Yes, _Apollo 13_ was so _affecting_ that it had you come home bawling your eyes out—”

“I was _not_.”

“—and watch…what number romantic comedy are you on for today?”

“First of all,” Lance says, sticking a finger in Hunk’s face, “ _The Princess Bride_ is _fantasy_ , not a _romantic comedy_. And second of all…three.” He rubs his face and says, “God, Hunk, I _know_ this is pathetic, but just let me wallow for a bit.”

“A few days is fine, sure,” Hunk says, “but a couple weeks is a bit much. Lance, I’m worried, and it doesn’t help that I haven’t even seen you wear a _face mask_ lately either.”

Lance chuckles, amused despite himself. “Am I that obvious?”

“I didn’t think you were trying to hide it,” Hunk points out.

Lance folds his arms and balances them on his knees. “Guess not.”

“So…what’s going on?” Hunk asks again. “Please tell me, before I have you committed or something.”

Lance snorts. “You wouldn’t dare,” he says. “If they look too hard at a hospital, they’ll know my records are fake.”

“Well, sure, I wouldn’t, but I _am_ getting annoyed here.”

Lance sighs. “God. _Fine_ , it’s just…I was watching _The Princess Bride_ the other day, and I kept getting _stuck_ on Westley telling Buttercup ‘as you wish’.” He turns to Hunk and flails his arms. “How the _hell_ does ‘as you wish’ translate to ‘I love you’?”

“So you…watched the movie all over again to try to understand that?”

“Yes,” Lance says, seizing on the easy excuse Hunk offered. “That’s _exactly_ it, because _I_ once said ‘as you wish’ to a woman, and I sure as _hell_ meant it as ‘I love you’ even if I didn’t know it at the—” He growls, cutting himself off in a sudden rush of anger. “I didn’t even tell her I love her.”

“All right, well, so I think a lot of what you just said is complete and total bull, but let’s try and unpack it, shall we?”

Lance barely hears him and instead demands, “Does Pidge ever check in on you?”

Hunk blinks, startled at the rapid change in subject, but says, “No? I…haven’t seen her since that first time after my car accident. Why do you ask?” Then he narrows his eyes at him. “Wait, have _you_ seen her?”

Lance’s pulse quickens. There’s something there, some kind of meaning, but he can’t quite glean it in his current emotional state. “I, well, I was just curious,” he says. “And yeah, I’ve seen her a few times…but since she only shows up when I’m about to get hurt, it must be because your sense of self-preservation is better than mine.”

“Well, then when was the last time you saw her?”

“I think it was…about six years ago,” Lance says, “right before I moved back here.”

“And you were in danger six years ago?” Hunk asks with a skeptical frown.

“My evening was in danger,” Lance mumbles.

“So I’ll take that as a no,” Hunk says. Then his eyes widen in understanding and he asks, “Are you upset for a reason to do with Pidge?”

Lance frowns at the floor. “I…might be.”

“Lance, are you in love with an angel of death?”

“She is - she _was_ my guardian angel, thank you very much,” Lance retorts, rolling his eyes.

“Guardian angel of your heart, apparently,” Hunk says.

Lance sighs and leans his head back against the sofa. “I just…I guess she did the right thing by you more than by me then,” he admits.

Hunk wonders, “What do you mean?”

Lance snorts and says, “I met her brother. Turns out our immortality is just an extension on our lives and we’re going to die someday anyway.”

“Oh,” Hunk says. “Huh.”

Lance spins his head around to gape at him. “What do you mean _huh_?” He waves his hands and scowls. “Why didn’t she _tell_ me that? It seems _awfully_ important.”

“Well,” Hunk says carefully, “when I think about it, I think she _did_ mention the ‘temporary’ part to me.”

“What? She did?”

“Yeah,” Hunk says, nodding. “She told me I was immortal ‘until further notice’. That sounded temporary to me.”

Lance’s jaw drops and he says, “I’m an idiot.”

“What? Why?”

Lance rubs his face and admits, “I think she said something like that to me too, but dammit…I’d just woken up after avoiding getting blown to bits.” He frowns. “I can’t be held accountable for what I wasn’t lucid enough to remember!”

Hunk shoots an odd look at him. “Who’s holding you accountable?”

“I don’t know,” Lance says. “God, I guess. Is _He_ Pidge’s boss, or is there a middle manager?”

“Lance, buddy, you’re asking the wrong person,” he says. “Between the two of us, you were the one raised Catholic.”

Lance chuckles. “Yeah, fine, but I’m not a fan of theological questions.” He brushes uncombed hair from his face. “They make my head hurt.”

“Well,” Hunk says with the air of someone changing the subject, “from what I know so far, you shouldn’t worry about Pidge not returning your feelings.”

Lance scoffs and says, “What makes you think that?”

“Unless I miss my mark, she’s visited you at least three times if we include the first.”

“Well, I just told you about the time we watched Star Wars—”

“You watched Star Wars with _her_?”

“—but what makes you think there was a time before that?”

Hunk frowns at him. “You’re telling me you fell in love with someone after only meeting them twice?”

Lance blushes and rubs the back of his neck. “While that sounds ridiculous when you say it like that, I’ll have you know that love at first sight exists.”

“Oh,” Hunk says, smirking and folding his hands under his chin, “ _do_ explain.”

“Listen carefully,” Lance says in a low tone, “and listen well, because I will not repeat myself.”

“You’re using your ‘angry teacher’ voice so this must be serious.”

Lance scowls at him. “Then can you please take it seriously?”

Hunk grumbles, “Stop being a hypocrite and just tell me.”

“I think Pidge is the love of my stupid long life,” Lance blurts. “And I think I’ve been in love with her for most of it.”

“Huh, yeah, you’re doomed to have a miserable life if you think that,” Hunk tells him with a condescending pat on the shoulder.

“Thank you for your sympathy,” Lance says, rolling his eyes.

“But as I was _saying_ ,” Hunk says, “Pidge never visited me—”

“You never put yourself in any danger.”

“—so I think she must like you and might even feel the same way about you.”

Lance frowns at him. He wants to believe that - his heart reaches for that, wants to adopt it for a truth - but he can’t help doubting. Was she busy during all her stretches of avoidance? Was she protecting herself from future heartbreak?

Lance doesn’t know, and he doubts he’ll ever find out now.

“Hunk,” he says with a heavy sigh, “if she loves me, why didn’t she tell me all this stuff herself?”

“About the temporary immortality?” Hunk stares at him. “I thought we’d established that she probably thought you already knew.”

Lance’s eyes widen, and he backtracks and says, “Well, obviously I meant why didn’t she tell me how she feels!”

He’s not sure why he doesn’t want to tell Hunk about the _other_ thing - that Pidge will be the one to collect their souls once they _finally_ die. It feels like private, privileged information…and something he wishes he’d learned from Pidge rather than from her brother.

“Well, why didn’t _you_ tell her how you feel?” Hunk turns back on him.

Lance sighs and says, “So saying ‘as you wish’ isn’t good enough?”

Hunk shakes his head and smiles. “Not when she doesn’t get the reference, man.”

Lance laughs. “Guess now I know why I was never great at the romance thing,” he muses. “I was too busy mooning over an angel of _death_.”

Hunk rubs his back. “The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can get over it.”

Lance’s chest tightens at that, but he says, “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that. Can’t prove she loves me anyway.”

“If it’ll convince you,” Hunk says, tone teasing, “I’ll put myself in danger and ask her.”

Lance smiles. “Oh, and how will you do that?”

“I’ll jump off the Empire State Building,” he says. “That’ll be enough to summon her, right?”

“But you hate heights,” Lance points out.

“Dammit, Lance, _I_ _’m_ meant to be the rational one here.”

Lance grins a little wider, his chest loosening slightly as he and Hunk tease each other.

Lance later returns most of the tapes unwatched, but he buys a copy of _The Princess Bride_ for himself, sticking it in his movie collection right next to Star Wars.

* * *

 

While Lance can’t see the path ahead, he forges on anyway. There’s nothing else for him to do, at least, but wait for whatever fate has in store for him.

In the meanwhile, he does some good dealing with seven-year-olds and their messes, or he likes to think so anyway.

Unfortunately, adult messes are that much worse, and a new problem - one that he _should_ _’ve_ anticipated but didn’t - stares him in the face after about six years of teaching.

“Uh, sure,” Lance tells Louise. “Getting a drink Friday after work sounds fun.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “Any particular reason?”

Louise plays with her hair, twists the end of her ponytail around a finger, as she says, “Yes, actually.”

Lance packs his lunch - lovingly prepared by Hunk - away and prompts, “So…?”

She gapes at him. “Are you serious?”

“About what?”

“Lance, let me be blunt,” she says.

“I thought you were Louise,” he mutters under his breath.

Louise clears her throat, and when he looks at her she says, “I’m asking you out on a date.”

When Lance processes her words, his jaw drops. “Wait, what?”

“Wait, are you not single?” Louise wonders, her eyes wide and face steadily reddening. “I just assumed you were because you never talk about a girlfriend - or a boyfriend, for that matter!” She raises her hands defensively, then pushes her chair back and stands. “Never mind, just—”

“Wait, wait, Louise,” Lance says, grabbing her wrist until she sits again. He’s sure his own face is red too - no woman has ever expressed such _blatant_ interest in him - but he manages not to stammer when he says, “I’m actually _very_ single.”

“Oh,” Louise says. A hopeful smile stretches across her face, though she’s still flushed, and adds, “Okay. But does that mean…?”

Lance pinches his lips together as she trails off. A voice in his head - in his heart - screams at him that accepting is a betrayal of Pidge, and of Louise herself, for whom he feels nothing stronger than the camaraderie of fellow teachers and maybe friends.

But Lance knows he needs to move forward, to get on with his life and to accept that Pidge…isn’t coming back to him.

So he smiles and says, “Sure. I’d love to go on a date with you.”

Lance tries to ignore the tightness in his chest when Louise grins at him.

* * *

 

The irony that he sees Louise far more often than he ever saw Pidge doesn’t escape him. It _can_ _’t_ , not when he comes home one day and - in as gleeful an attitude as he can - informs Hunk that he has a _date_.

“Mortal women are good enough for you now?” Hunk quips.

“They were always good enough for me,” Lance retorts, rolling his eyes.

Hunk glances at him from over the refrigerator door, eyes narrowed. “Exactly how many women _have_ you dated?”

Lance leans against the kitchen counter and shrugs. “A few,” he admits. “Mostly in the twenties before the whole… _immortality_ thing got a little crazy.”

Hunk shuts the refrigerator. “What makes this time any different?” He smirks. “Is she special?”

“She’s my coworker,” Lance explains, “and it _has_ been a while. I just figured it was about time, you know?”

Hunk smiles and pats him on the shoulder. “Good,” he says. “I’m glad you’re feeling better about…”

Lance rolls his eyes. “You can say her name, Hunk,” he says. “It’s not like hearing it will kill me. Besides,” he continues brightly, “what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, and since I can’t be killed”—he snaps his fingers and smirks—” _everything_ makes me stronger.”

Hunk laughs. “Right, I’m going to tell myself that next time I need to do something that’s making me anxious.”

“Hey, it’s public domain now,” Lance jokes, “but make sure you at least remember me in spirit when you use it.”

“Sure, whatever you say, Lance,” Hunk retorts. He rests his elbow on the counter, leaning across it towards Lance, and asks, “So…what are you doing on this date?”

Lance waves a dismissive hand. “We’re just going out for drinks after work,” he says. “From there, I guess we’ll see?”

“Have fun, and do tell if you kiss her after.”

“Please, Hunk, I don’t kiss and tell,” Lance says. Then he sags and grumbles, “And now I have lesson plans to make. You need help with dinner?”

“As long as you clean up after, I’ll be good,” Hunk tells him. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem.” Lance waves and trudges out of the kitchen and towards his bedroom. Inside he finally kicks off his shoes and shrugs out of his jacket, but not before pulling out the slip of paper with Louise’s phone number on it.

Her handwriting is neat, with big circles in her eights and nines, and she signed her name in even cursive despite the lack of lines.

Idly, he wonders what Pidge’s handwriting looks like, what that clipboard of hers that she conjured out of thin air had written on—

Lance halts those thoughts before he can follow them any further. It’s done, he reminds himself. If he keeps wondering, that’s all he’ll ever do.

* * *

 

Lance kisses Louise that evening. He’s not sure why, if he’s a little drunk and unsteady on his feet, or if he’s starved enough for affection that he’d kiss a woman on their first date.

But she kisses him back, her hand resting on his chest while they stand on the sidewalk outside her apartment building. It’s an easy kiss, since she’s not much shorter than he is, but even that fact doesn’t keep him from imagining he’s kissing Pidge when he closes his eyes.

But his heart still pounds - a kiss is a kiss, after all - and they’re both breathless when he pulls away, when he remembers who she is and who she isn’t.

Louise grins at him, her face flushed, and quips, “I didn’t think you were the sort to kiss on the first date.”

Lance laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “I might be drunk,” he admits.

“Well, in that case”—she doesn’t have to stand on her toes or grab his shoulders for balance to kiss his cheek—”call me when you get home.”

“Why?” Lance wonders. “I was planning on paying for a cab.”

“I know,” Louise says, “but I just want to know when you get back safely.”

Shame torpedoes his heart into his stomach, but he tells her, “Don’t worry about me, Louise.” When she frowns at him, he adds, “But fine, I’ll call you.”

She smiles. “Good. I’ll see you at work on Monday?”

“Yeah,” he says, stuffing his hands into his pockets as Louise waves and retreats into her apartment building. When the door clicks shut behind her, he returns to the waiting taxi and tells the driver to take him back home.

Lance keeps his promise and calls Louise when he gets back, and she blessedly keeps that conversation short. Just a quick exchange of pleasantries and an assurance that Lance didn’t walk in on someone burglarizing his apartment.

After hanging up, he collapses face-first onto the sofa and buries his face in the throw pillow. Distantly he hears the creaking of hinges and the shuffling of slippered feet on wood before Hunk asks, “Was your date that good that you called her right after?”

Lance groans and mumbles, “She wanted to make sure I got home _safely_.”

“That’s nice of her,” Hunk says.

He turns his head and stares up at Hunk, scowling. “That’s _better_ than _nice_ of her, Hunk!” he retorts. He slowly sits up and rubs his tired eyes. “I don’t know if I can convince myself I like her as much as she likes me.”

Hunk sits next to him and wonders, “What happened?”

“Nothing bad,” Lance says, shrugging. “We went to a bar, had a few drinks between us, and then took a cab back to hers so I could drop her off.”

“And…?”

Lance grimaces and admits, “And then I kissed her.”

Hunk gapes at him. “But you just said you don’t like her.”

“I was kind of drunk, okay?” He crosses his arms and pouts. “And it’s been a _really_ long time since I kissed someone, so I just went for it.”

“I’m guessing she liked it?”

Lance snorts. “She did.”

Hunk pats his shoulder and says, “What are you going to do then?”

“I have to end it,” Lance realizes. But when that affirmation fills him with dread, he frowns. He doesn’t like Louise, not in the way that she might want him to, so he can’t understand why it would be so difficult to end a relationship before it begins.

“Well, whatever you think is best,” Hunk tells him.

“Yeah,” Lance agrees with a nod, “I just hope it won’t be awkward at work after since I still have to see her every day.”

“It’ll be fine,” Hunk reassures her. “She sounds reasonable, and better get cold feet now than on your wedding day.”

Lance scowls. “Thanks for that mental image, Hunk.”

Hunk grins. “No problem.”

* * *

 

Lance returns to work on Monday fully intending to tell Louise that, though he had fun with her on Friday, he can’t pursue a relationship with her…anymore than he can tell her why. But when she looks at him with a smile on her face during their lunch break, he instead asks, “What are you doing this Friday?”

* * *

 

Lance isn’t sure at what point in a relationship it becomes necessary to sit through a movie that’s over three hours long, but something tells him he and Louise aren’t _there_ yet.

It’s one of those movies that reeks _romance_ and _drama_ , and while Lance doesn’t mind a good romance, the drama of it feels too raw and makes his chest ache. And it’s obvious from before they step into the theater that the whole thing is _doomed_.

“I’m not sure I want to watch this movie anymore, Louise,” Lance tells her when they stand in line to buy tickets.

Louise crosses her arms. “Why not?” she asks. “We planned this a week ago, so why are you changing your mind now?”

“Well,” Lance says with a nonchalance he doesn’t feel, “what’s the point of watching a movie if I know how it ends? The boat hits an iceberg, gets split in half, and sinks.” He raises an eyebrow at her. “Not much room for plot twists there, right?” His heart pounds, and he smiles at her, begging her to agree with him.

Louise frowns at him. “The movie’s not about the ship sinking, Lance,” she points out. “It’s about the people aboard it.”

“Right,” Lance grits out, “I get that, because I was—”

Not there, but he still remembers the headlines.

Not all historical films set in the twentieth century make his insides twist like they are now, but he’s a man that can’t bear to watch a tragedy, not when he’s stuck living one of his own.

Lance bites his tongue, unable to tell Louise what’s on his mind. It eats at him, this reticence he’s forced to have with her, and made a thousand times worse than it is with anyone else.

He would never have to hold himself back with P—

“Two tickets for _Titanic_ , please.”

Louise ordering from the box office jerks Lance from his dreary thoughts. He nudges her in the side, feigning brevity, and when she glances at him he says, “So you’re buying tonight?”

She hums and grins as the cashier passes over their tickets. “You bought last time,” she says, “and I’m a modern twentieth century woman.”

Lance laughs, and as he does his chest loosens. He enjoys his time with Louise, despite his too-long history weighing him down, and sometimes he thinks he might even have feelings for her.

Other times an object as innocent as a bowl of popcorn sitting in his lap and a hand reaching in at the same time as he does brings his world crashing back down.

Louise wraps her fingers around Lance’s, squeezing, and when she does it feels like she’s squeezing his heart. He avoids glancing at her, instead fixing his gaze on the screen ahead as the drama unfolds there.

Lance fidgets in his seat, and about an hour in he mutters to Louise, “I’m going to get more popcorn. Do you want anything?”

Louise, her attention on the movie, only shakes her head.

Lance stands and rushes out of the theater, only to realize once he’s standing in line for concessions that he forgot the popcorn bucket. He tilts his head back, staring up at the ceiling until another moviegoer grumbles at him to get out of their way.

Lance apologizes, and suddenly the cinema feels too crowded. Others bombard him from every direction, seeking candy or their own movies. It’s hot inside, hot enough that sweat drips down the side of his face, and his heart pounds with the sort of panic he associates with a nightmare.

He needs air.

Lance bursts through the theater door, sighing in relief when cold air flows over his skin. He leans against the wall, breathing deeply until his heartbeat steadies.

“It’s just a movie,” he tells himself. “You weren’t even _there_.”

But that doesn’t matter in this moment.

Lance thinks he could sit through a documentary about the _Titanic_ , though doubtless it would be boring, but this film’s plot digs under his skin and _sits_ there in a way that even World War Two movies can’t.

He clenches his hands into fists, calm but not relaxed, and mumbles, “I miss you. I miss you so much it _hurts_.”

He can’t face Louise now, not when he’s on the verge of tears he can’t explain to her, even if the movie provides a convenient excuse…

Lance straightens and walks away from the theater to hail a taxi. The wind nips at his face while he waits, and when he reaches to pull up his hood, he can’t find his coat.

He left that inside the theater too.

Lance is shivering, teeth chattering so violently it rattles his skeleton, by the time he steps into the warmth of a cab’s interior. But he tells the driver where to take him.

Hunk sits at the kitchen table when he walks into the apartment, reading a book and drinking a steaming mug of hot chocolate. He glances up as Lance shuts and locks the front door and observes, “You’re home early. If you want some hot chocolate, there’s still some—wait, are you all right, Lance?”

Lance collapses in the chair across from Hunk and drops his forehead on the table. “I forgot my coat at the theater,” he complains.

“Is that… _all_ that’s bothering you?”

Lance starts to nod, then changes his mind and shakes his head instead. “I left in the middle of the damn movie,” he mutters. He lifts his head but rests his chin on his folded arms. “Louise is going to—”

The phone ringing interrupts him, and as he stands to answer he says, “Speak of the devil.”

“A devil I thought you liked,” Hunk says.

“I did, or I do, or…I don’t know what I mean.” Lance grimaces then picks up the phone and says, “Hello?”

“Lance?” Louise says.

Lance clears his throat and asks, “Did you enjoy the movie?”

“Did I—are you _serious_?”

“I’ll take that as a no,” he says.

Louise sighs, then demands, “Why the hell did you just walk out? I was worried when you didn’t come back.”

“I…remembered that I had a bunch of papers to grade,” Lance lies.

“Oh, bull,” Louise retorts. “It’s Christmas break!”

“Well, the movie was too long and I was getting antsy,” he says, and though it’s true guilt still twists his stomach into knots. “Look, Louise—”

“You’re not as into this as I am, are you, Lance?”

Lance swallows and quietly wonders, “You want to do this over the phone?”

“No,” Louise says, her voice strained, “but I think we need to do this now.”

Lance shoots a glance at Hunk, and without any other prompting he takes his drink and his book and leaves the kitchen. Then he tells Louise, “Now it is, but before you get angry, can you promise to bring my jacket to work after break?”

“Can I—yeah, fine,” she grumbles. “ _It_ didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m sorry, Louise,” he says, and means. He rubs his face and adds, “I shouldn’t have left like that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” she says. “It would’ve been _fine_ if you’d come back and _told_ me you were leaving, at least. I might’ve been annoyed though.”

Lance chuckles and says, “I deserve that.”

“Yes, you do,” she says curtly. But then she sighs - he has a feeling she’ll be doing a lot of that for this conversation - and asks, “Is there someone else?”

Lance freezes, the phone nearly slipping from his hand, but manages to say, “What gives you that impression?”

“It seems obvious to me now, if I think about it,” Louise explains hesitantly. “Except for that first time, you’ve never kissed me first, or even hugged me first. You’re warm, but you’re never…enthusiastic. You ask me about my day, but you never seem interested in what I’m saying and…” She trails off with a shaky breath.

Lance’s heart sinks deeper with every word, because he knows she’s right. “Yeah,” he admits carefully, “there is.”

“Then why did you bother with me?” Louise asks, her tone borderline accusatory. “Why did you lead me on like that?”

Lance rubs his face, exhausted. “I was trying to get over her,” he says. “I’m _still_ trying. I’m sor—”

“Oh, don’t say you’re sorry, Lance,” she says. “It’s not going to give back all the time I wasted with you.”

And that hurts Lance, makes his chest ache even though his feelings for Louise aren’t as strong as they should be. “That’s fair,” he agrees. “I’m sorry I wasted your time then.”

“Look,” Louise says, sighing, “I hope that, for your sake, it works out with whoever she is or that you get over her or whatever you need, but I’m not wasting time with you anymore.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Lance says.

“Good, I’ll…see you at work. Merry Christmas.”

Louise hangs up, and in the ensuing silence, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator, Lance feels _numb_. The best he can say about ending things over the phone is that he won’t have to see Louise cry.

He closes the line and wanders into the living room. He sits on the sofa next to Hunk, who looks up at him and asks, “So…?”

“She was nicer about it than I deserve,” Lance says, burying his face in his hands. “She knows I’m hung up on someone else and says _I hope it works out_.” He sighs and adds, “When I do finally die, I’m going to hell for this.”

“You don’t know that, man,” Hunk says, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve done some good in your life too.”

Lance cracks a smile and says, “Thanks, Hunk.” He pats Hunk’s hand. “I’m glad shooting down German planes during the war will help me escape hell.”

Hunk laughs. “That’s the spirit,” he says. “And while you’re at it, can you put in a good word for me? I grew up after the last _reasonable_ war.”

Lance snorts and confesses, “I wish I could pilot again. Damn, that was a good feeling…”

“Why can’t you?” Hunk wonders, raising an eyebrow at him.

Lance stares. “With what license, Hunk?”

Hunk shrugs and says, “Get one the same way you get a driver’s license.”

Lance crosses his arms and retorts, “I haven’t had a driver’s license since I moved to New York.”

“Yeah, but you had one in Miami, right?”

Lance runs his fingers through his hair, mulling over Hunk’s words, then says, “I’ll have to go back to flight school, at least. Planes are so much different now.”

“You can get the hang of it, I think,” Hunk says. “They won’t be _all_ that different, just a bigger machine with more powerful engines. The controls, for the most part, should be the same.”

Lance frowns at him, skeptical. “How do you know that?”

“Lance,” Hunk says with a trace of impatience, “I’m an _engineer_. It is _literally_ my job to know these things.”

Lance chuckles, reclining against the sofa, and concedes, “Well, I guess if planes are anything like cars in how they’ve changed, you’re probably right.”

“I often am,” Hunk says. Then he narrows his eyes at Lance and adds, “You look exhausted, man.”

“Yeah,” Lance says. He stands, stretching his arms over his head, and bids Hunk good night.

But Hunk’s suggestion and the idea taking form inside his mind energizes him, and rather than sleeping after he changes into pajamas, he takes out his Game Boy to replace his _original_ plan for evening entertainment.

Or he _would_ , if he can find it.

“Where the hell…?” he mutters as he checks behind his dresser. After he exhausts all the likely hiding places, he rests his hands on his hips and inspects his bedroom from the doorway. Frowning, he calls out, “Hunk, have you seen my Game Boy?”

Hunk replies, “No! Did you check under your bed?”

Lance scowls and retorts, “Of course I did! I looked everywhere!”

“Obviously not,” Hunk shoots back.

Lance rolls his eyes but otherwise ignores him. Instead he sighs and tucks himself into bed anyway. For all he knows, Hunk expected him to want to play a game before sleeping and stole it so he wouldn’t…

Lance wakes up groggy the next morning after a fitful night of sleep. He barely slipped into a doze, least of all a slumber deep enough to dream, plagued as he was by thoughts of Louise - and dread for his return to work - and _avoiding_ thoughts of—

His foggy eyes catch on something lying on his bedside table. He reaches for it, alert and frowning at his Game Boy and the Space Invaders cartridge inserted into it, before noticing a slip of paper left behind.

Lance picks it up, narrowing his eyes at the untidy scribble, and finally deciphers, _You were right._

His heart pounds, and something inside him loosens as the widest smile he’s worn in a while stretches across his face.

* * *

 

For the first time in years, Lance wears his old brown leather jacket, dusting it off and slipping it on before he heads to work after the break. It gives him a certain confidence and keeps most of the dread at bay before he faces Louise.

She doesn’t quite look him in the eye when they meet during their lunch break, and he can tell she eats faster than usual and doesn’t linger after she finishes.

Lance understands, and it frees him of a burden, but between the shame still sitting within him and the curious looks their fellow teachers shoot the two of them, the atmosphere is far from comfortable.

Gone is the ease with which he and Louise conversed before, when he asked her for advice on handling a classroom. And though Lance mourns it, he knows all too well that everything is temporary.

Even his too-long life.

* * *

 

“So basically this year is our last?” Lance asks Hunk.

Hunk frowns at him from over his tea. “What?”

“Did you not hear the news?” Lance points over his shoulder towards the living room. “It’s called Y2K, and technology is going to go apples and bananas.”

“First of all, what do apples and bananas have to do with tech—oh, wait, MacIntosh exists.” Hunk grins at his own joke, but before Lance can do more than roll his eyes, he continues, “And second of all Y2K isn’t actually dangerous.”

“Oh, so my Game Boy rising up and murdering me in my sleep isn’t _dangerous_?”

Hunk stares at him. “You lived through World War Two. You can live through the so-called Millennium Bug.”

“See?” Lance flails his arms. “Now that makes it sound like a virus!”

“Lance,” Hunk says, setting his mug down and pressing his fingers together, “you are immune to disease, just like I am. Also, if you think that something as dangerous as you _think_ Y2K is going to be will kill you, then just remind yourself that you’re _immortal_.”

Lance blinks at him, then grumbles, “My video games aren’t.”

Hunk throws his hands up. “How the hell am _I_ the anxious one?” Then he stands and sets his empty mug in the sink. “Anyway, I should be going to that New Year’s Eve party.”

Lance hums and says, “Have fun.”

“Unlikely,” Hunk grumbles. “One of my coworkers is going to try to kiss me without my consent like _last_ year.”

“Then why go at all?” Lance wonders, glancing at him over his shoulder.

Hunk loops a scarf around his neck and tucks the ends into his coat. “Because if I don’t my manager will make me plan _next_ year’s party, which I wouldn’t mind if all I’d have to worry about is food.”

Lance laughs and says, “Eat some garlic bread then.”

Hunk sags and says, “With my luck, this year’s won’t be nearly strong enough.”

Lance waves as Hunk shuts the front door behind him, and when he’s alone, he stretches his arms over his head and extends his legs under the table. “What to do?” he asks himself, tilting his chair back on two legs.

Lance rests his hands behind his head, keeping his balance by locking his feet around the table’s legs. He wants to be around people tonight, especially if Hunk is wrong and Y2K either kills him or destroys civilization as he knows it. But—

“Hunk is right, by the way.”

Lance loses his balance, heart pounding as he lands with a thud on the tile as his chair gives way under his weight. He groans at the impact, eyes pinched closed, but when he opens them he has to blink a few times before he can believe what he sees.

“Pidge?”

Pidge offers him a hand, and he grabs it. Before she helps him to his feet, he savors the warmth of her palm pressed against his.

She pulls him into a hug, her arms wrapped tightly around his torso and her fingers clutching at the back of his shirt. He can feel her trembling, and as he swallows around the sudden, _absurd_ lump in his throat he understands exactly how she feels.

Lance is quick to return her embrace, hugging her against him with her face pressed to his chest. Warmth blooms from there, and laughter bursts from him when he buries his nose in her hair.

She smells as sweet as he remembers, her very scent haunting his dreams.

“I missed you,” Pidge says, shaky voice muffled in his shirt. “I’m so sorry, Lance. I never wanted to stay away that long.”

“I’m just happy you’re here now,” he tells her, and means it.

Lance doesn’t want to talk about her brother’s words, not about his conditional immortality or about the role she’ll play in his death. He doesn’t even want to talk about her absence.

Lance just wants to hold Pidge.

“Am I dreaming?” he asks, because sometimes he’s not sure what to trust, not when he doubted her existence the first times he saw her. He pulls away slightly, just enough to look her in the eye.

Pidge shakes her head, grinning though a single tear slides down her cheek. “I’m real,” she says. “I promise I’m real.”

Lance rests his forehead against hers and closes his eyes, breathing deeply. “You have no idea how much I missed you, Pidge,” he says, keeping his voice low.

Pidge runs her fingers through his hair before resting her hand on the back of his neck. “I think I do,” she retorts.

Lance opens his eyes and meets hers, shining and brown. Her warm breath spreads over his face, and seeing her like this, so close, he wants to narrow the space between them and catch her lips with his.

But he doesn’t.

He may not want to ruin this reunion with talk about his death, about what impact it can have on Pidge, but he can’t push it from his mind either.

So he pulls away, his heart heavy, and asks, “What was Hunk right about?”

The bubble bursts.

Pidge drops her arms, her eyebrows drawing into a frown before she replies, “About this…Y2K. It’s not dangerous at all.”

Lance crosses his arms. “How not?”

Pidge smiles, her face instantly brightening, and explains, “Well, it’s a bug in most computers that will make their calendars and clocks reset to the wrong year, to 1900 specifically, rather than to 2000, because the way that dates are programmed in computers is…” She scowls at him. “You’re not listening, are you?”

Lance feels the silly smile pushing at his lips and admits, “I’m too busy thinking about how happy I am to see you.”

Pidge’s face reddens, but she rolls her eyes. “I’m trying to convince you that you’re not in any danger.”

“You’re a great angel of death, Pidge,” Lance teases, prodding her arm. “Have I ever told you that?”

Pidge snorts and says, “I’ve done a pretty rotten job since you’re still walking and talking.”

“Well, you can’t argue against interference from above, right?” Lance quips.

“…but mostly talking.” Pidge smirks, and it widens when Lance screeches indignantly.

God, does it feel good to tease each other again.

They slip into a tense silence, where all they really do is smile at each other. Lance feels like his heart is fit to burst, overwhelmed as he is to see Pidge again after over a decade. They’ve been apart this long - or even _longer_ \- before, but this time was torture.

An explosive nearly blasted him into oblivion, an ocean almost drowned him, a mugger stabbed him and left him to bleed out, and an enemy fighter shot his plane down as he fell without a parachute. Yet of all of these, this latest separation from Pidge was the most _painful_.

Lance never wants this moment to end.

Pidge breaks the silence by clearing her throat and wondering, “Do you have any games other than Space Invaders?”

Lance laughs and says, “We haven’t seen each other in years and you ask about my games?”

“Well…do you?” Pidge presses.

He rolls his eyes and leaves the kitchen, beckoning for her to follow him through the apartment and into his room. While Pidge perches on the edge of his bed, he rifles through the drawer in his bedside table and pulls out all the accessories for his Game Boy.

Pidge takes the device and, after a brief inspection of his selection of games, chooses Tetris and inserts it into the Game Boy. She clicks it on, and Lance sits beside her.

“Really?” he says with a raised eyebrow. “I have all these games and you choose _Tetris_?”

“You chose it first,” Pidge points out reasonably.

Lance’s cheeks warm as he grins. “I _do_ have good taste.”

“You just insulted your own taste,” Pidge says without glancing up from the screen.

Lance rolls his eyes, but he leans in to watch her play.

Naturally she’s an expert from the start - either that, or she already knew where he keeps his games and periodically stole them - and surpasses his high score. As she approaches another, higher level, he nudges her and says, “Is this what you’re going to do this time? Play every single one of my games until you beat my best scores?”

Pidge laughs and says, “Don’t tempt me.”

But when she finally loses, she shuts the Game Boy off and passes it back to him. Then she says, “It’s been a while since I spent very much time around humans.”

Lance frowns. “Then what have you been doing lately?”

Pidge’s gaze darts to his face before quickly drifting away again as she says, “I was…investigating.”

“Investigating what?”

Pidge inhales sharply, eyes pinched closed, and says, “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t find what I was looking for.”

“Oh,” Lance says. He takes her small hand in his, sliding his thumb over her knuckles, and asks, “How important was it?”

Her hand tightens around his. “Very.”

Lance swallows, unsure what to say or how to comfort her. But his eyes slide past Pidge and land on his alarm clock, and an idea that he hopes he won’t regret takes root in his mind.

“Pidge?”

She glances at him, a question in her wide eyes.

“Tonight is New Year’s Eve,” Lance tells her.

“So?” Pidge stares at him.

“Well, there’s a…tradition where…” Lance licks his lips, hesitating, but plows ahead anyway. “It’s a silly tradition where, if you kiss someone at midnight for the New Year, your future with them looks…good.” He meets her eyes, face red and heart pounding, hoping she’ll take his meaning.

“Oh,” Pidge says, blinking rapidly. “W-what time is it now?”

Lance glances at the clock and reads out, “There are two minutes till midnight.”

Her grip on his hand doesn’t loosen, and she says, “Kiss me.”

Lance leans in, enough that he can distinguish individual shades of brown in her eyes, but can’t help wondering, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Pidge breathes, her eyes slipping closed.

Lance carefully rests his hand - the one not holding tight to hers - on her cheek, tilting her face towards his, and before he can think too much about it, before he can convince himself that this is an indulgence they can’t afford, he bridges the distance.

When Lance kisses Pidge, he thinks her lips are the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, and when her fingers card through his hair, he forgets he almost lost her to time itself.

But Lance holds back, doesn’t press forward when Pidge pulls away; though he desperately wants to taste her again, he won’t take what she won’t give him.

Instead he contents himself with the sensation of her nose sliding beside his, their foreheads touching, and their fingers interlaced. Her breath still warms his face, and even this minimal contact keeps his heart racing.

“Happy New Year, Pidge,” he tells her, voice low as a whisper.

Pidge smiles and says, “Happy New Year, Lance.” She then pulls away and glances over her shoulder at his clock, which reads a minute past midnight. “Y2K wasn’t too bad after all, right?”

Lance presses his forehead against her shoulder and groans. “Stop mocking me, Pidge.”

Pidge stills teases his hair, and he can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “As you wish.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case it's not obvious i accidentally wrote Lance very very _very_ demisexual ~~which shouldn't be as surprising to me as it is considering i'm gray-ace whoops~~
> 
> also i promise Pidge appears a lot more in the next chapter


	10. a war of worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and parting is harder still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: originally the chapter titles were all supposed to be references to random sci fi novels but alas i got lazy, but there are still a couple holdouts (including this one) from that idea!!
> 
> that being said...one part/scene of this might prove a bit...controversial thanks to heavily implied subject matter (that's _not_ of a sexual nature before anyone jumps to that conclusion), but i promise i tried to deal with it as sensitively and consciously (and vaguely) as possible
> 
> anyway, hope you like this one!! ~~please don't hate me for the angst~~

“I’m tired of people asking where I’m hiding the fountain of youth,” Hunk tells Lance.

He’s just convinced Hunk to order in pizza rather than cook after a long day, and while they wait he drops the bombshell that makes Lance’s eyes nearly pop out of his skull.

“That’s a compliment,” Lance points out. “They meant that as a compliment.”

“I know, but I don’t have plausible deniability anymore. I’m past the point where I’d be using a fake ID to get into clubs and bars, and it’s either that or I’m not aging. And, well…you’ve done this before.”

Lance’s heart sinks, because he knows what Hunk’s about to say, but he still asks, “Done what?”

“It’s time for me to move on,” Hunk says, sighing. “I’ll forge some documents that say I was born in the seventies rather than the forties, and then…” He smiles and says, “I’m thinking somewhere west, like San Francisco or Seattle.”

“Or Los Angeles,” Lance prods hopefully.

“I grew up there,” Hunk says. “It feels too soon to go back.”

Lance blinks, then nods. “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He laughs. “I _still_ haven’t been back to Cuba.”

“You’ve got a few more roadblocks to get there than I do to get back to Los Angeles,” Hunk notes, patting him on the shoulder.

Lance shrugs his hand off and retorts, “Don’t have to remind me.”

Hunk blessedly senses his reluctance to pursue this topic, so instead wonders, “What made you suggest Los Angeles?”

Lance seizes on the question, and explains, “Well, I’m moving there after this next school year ends.” He rubs the back of his neck and smiles sheepishly. “I needed a change too, so I’m finally going to flight school - _again_ \- and getting a commercial pilot’s license.”

Hunk grins at him, then grabs him into a sudden, firm hug. “That’s great!” he says after he’s stepped back. “You know, you _have_ seemed better lately, or happier than you were last year. Is it because of this?”

Lance smiles, a familiar flutter rising in his stomach as he thinks of Pidge. He hasn’t seen her since the first morning of the new millennium, but rather than making his chest ache, the thought of her now fills him with anticipation of their next meeting.

It’ll be soon. He can _feel_ it.

“Partly,” he tells Hunk. “I’m looking forward to flying a plane again, but there’s also—”

A sharp knock sounds from the door, and Lance stands to answer. After he forks over some cash in exchange for two boxes of pizza, he drops them onto the kitchen table.

“Dig in,” he says.

“Gladly,” Hunk says while he opens the first box.

Lance grabs a slice of cheese, but as he takes the first bite Hunk asks, “Oh, you were saying something before the pizza got here.”

Lance slowly, deliberately chews and swallows that bite, then replies, “I can’t remember what.”

Lance isn’t sure why he lies when, moments ago, he’d plunged into an honest answer, but after reconsidering, after remembering that Hunk tried to convince him to let go of Pidge, he doubts he’ll take the news that he saw her again well.

So Lance bites his tongue, and the rest of his dinner tastes like ash.

* * *

 

Lance hates nothing more than he hates an empty apartment. There’s no sound of another person shifting in their sleep, or water running during a late-night bathroom break. There’s just him, the glowing digits on his alarm clock telling him it’s either too late to sleep or too early to wake, and the eerie silence of a room filled with only his thoughts.

Insomnia plagues him more often than it did when Hunk still lived with him, and most nights it takes Lance hours to fall asleep, if he sleeps at all. He never coped well with living alone, he muses, and it’s only gotten harder with time.

It’s not the sort of thing someone grows _used_ to.

Lance gives up around midnight. He rolls out of bed, puts on his lion slippers and slips on a robe, and walks through his apartment to the front door. After reconsidering, he returns to his bedroom for a blanket and his Game Boy.

Lance treads lightly through the silent apartment building, taking a few flights of stairs up until he reaches the door that leads onto the roof. He knows the trick required to jiggle the doorknob just right so he can open it without its key, and he sighs in relief when a cool evening wind - finally, the summer mugginess fades! - slides over his face.

But not a single star greets him, the brightness of the city’s lights washing them all out so that the sky looks a dark velvety navy rather than black.

“Stupid light pollution,” Lance grumbles as he lays the blanket on the roof.

He lies on his back when he does, shifting until he’s in a somewhat comfortable position and the concrete beneath him doesn’t _quite_ dig into his shoulder. He rests his hands on his abdomen - it’s still strange, not feeling a belly button at his navel, even after over a century - and stares up at the moon.

“I want to touch it someday,” he says to the night air, to the noise that drifts up to the roof from the street below. “Why should Neil Armstrong have all the fun?”

“He didn’t. Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins were with him, remember?”

Lance bolts upright, heart pounding as a smile spreads across his face. “Pidge!”

Pidge laughs and settles on the blanket beside him, and when he wraps his arms around her and pulls her into a tight hug she quickly returns it. “How long has it been?” she asks, her voice low and so close to his ear he has to suppress a shiver.

“Too long,” he replies.

Pidge pulls away, her hands falling into her lap, and raises an eyebrow at him. “While I don’t disagree, I meant in actual measured time, Lance.”

“I know,” he says, still smiling at her. “I’m just telling you how _I_ measure it.”

Pidge covers her face with an arm. “Y-you’re ridiculous.”

“Well, and since you asked, it’s been almost two years.” He leans back on his elbows, gaze alternating between Pidge’s face and the moon.

“That’s all?” Pidge says, frowning.

“What do you mean _that_ _’s all_?” Lance demands, sitting up again. “I know you said it’s hard for you to keep track of time, but for me almost two years without you is—” He cuts himself off at the sight of her staring at him with wide eyes. “What?”

Pidge shakes her head, but she bites her lip, which Lance takes to mean she’s fighting a smile. “Nothing,” she says. “It’s…a long time for me too.”

She leaves the ‘without you’ unsaid; of course, it’s understood to them, that any time apart isn’t time spent apart willingly. But now something has fundamentally changed in their relationship, and Lance senses a new thread of tension stretching between them.

They never did speak of the kiss shared that night, not when Pidge left not long after, his hand falling through empty air as she vanished.

Lance takes a deep breath, bracing himself, then says, “Pidge, I think we should talk—”

“No,” Pidge interrupts, her gaze drifting away from his face. She wraps her arms around her legs and rests her chin on her knees.

“But—”

“Lance,” Pidge says with her eyes pinched shut, “it won’t—it wouldn’t— _we_ wouldn’t…work.”

“You don’t know that,” Lance argues.

Pidge sighs and tells him, “Even my parents see each other more often than we do.”

“So?” Lance asks, hurriedly before his heart plummets in disappointment. “It’s like being in a long-distance relationship.”

“I can get in trouble for it, Lance,” Pidge says. “And not just me, but my whole family. It’s already bad enough that I’ve visited you so many times.”

Lance swallows, reminded of her brother, reminded of the threat he and Pidge pose to each other, even if unwittingly, but that won’t - that _can_ _’t_ \- deter him.

At least until he remembers:

_“What are you afraid of, Pidge?”_

_“Getting my wings clipped.”_

“Pidge,” he says, looking her in the eye, “who would hurt you? Or, _what_ would hurt you, and _why_?” When Pidge doesn’t reply, her face instead directed up to the sky, he wonders, “Are you happy with this?”

“I’m all right with it,” Pidge answers. “Sometimes, I might even be content.”

“But are you _happy_?” Lance presses.

Pidge glances at him, twining a few strands of hair around a finger - hair Lance desperately wants to touch. Then, she slowly shakes her head, but says, “I’m at least happy like _this_.”

“Is it enough?” Lance says.

“I don’t know,” Pidge admits.

When she leans against him, her head resting against his shoulder and her side pressed into his, he holds his breath and extends an arm around her. He tries not to inhale her sweet scent, tries not to let her hair brush his chin or cheek, tries not to think of pressing his lips to her forehead.

He tries and fails not to react to her at all.

His heart pounds, and Lance can’t help quipping, “Well, now you’re just making that difficult.”

“Making what difficult?” Pidge turns her head slightly.

“That whole… _not_ being together thing.”

“We _are_ together, Lance,” Pidge points out, her pinkie brushing his hand. “Just not in the way we want to be.”

 _We want to be._ Lance sighs but smiles, the warmth in his chest familiar and welcome. “Then we’ll still be friends?”

In the moment before Pidge answers, Lance’s heart sinks with dread. He can’t imagine his life without looking forward to seeing her anymore and can’t remember a time he wasn’t in love with her.

Losing her won’t kill him, but the pain of it isn’t something he wants to live through ever again.

“We’ll still be friends,” Pidge promises with a smile. “Now, can we talk like friends? That’s why I’m here.”

Lance snorts, grateful for the change in subject. “Sure,” he says.

Pidge nods and immediately asks, “What are you doing out here anyway?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he confesses. “It’s been a little…hard since Hunk left.”

“Don’t you still talk to him?” Pidge says.

“Well, yeah,” Lance says, rolling his eyes, “but there are certain perks to living with another person.”

Pidge glances up at him and raises an eyebrow. “Such as?”

Lance smirks and says, “Such as the most obvious:  split rent. Teaching doesn’t pay well, you see, so that’s why I’m doing something different next year.”

Pidge shifts away from him - his whole left side so much _colder_ when she does - to face him. “What’s that?”

Lance grins. “I’m moving west and going back to flight school.”

“Piloting?” Then her eyes widen and she demands, “Are you enlisting again?”

“What?” Lance says. He raises his hands defensively, startled by her ferocity, and tells her, “No, I’m going to get a commercial piloting license. I’ll just fly passenger planes.”

“Oh,” Pidge says, and she sags in relief.

“I’d offer you a free seat on my first flight,” Lance jokes, poking her shoulder, “but you don’t need to borrow my wings when you have some of your own.” Then, before she can retort, he asks, “Why do you need wings anyway? You seem to teleport just fine.”

Pidge flashes him a smile and replies, “It’s the wings that enable me to ‘teleport’. And my travel isn’t instantaneous like you seem to think.”

“Then what is it?” Lance says.

“Very fast.”

Lance can still recall the feeling of his heart jumping into his throat, his stomach swooping as air rushes past him. “Can you take me with you sometime?”

Pidge flushes and she says, “W-we don’t really… _do_ that, Lance.”

“Why not?” Lance asks, nudging her in the arm. “It could be fun, and I would get a more _intimate_ experience of flying. Besides”—he winks—”I know you can carry me if you wanted to.”

Pidge laughs and covers her face with a hand. “That’s not the problem,” she says.

“Then what is?”

“The problem is that…you’re a human.”

“And you’re an angel.” Lance shrugs. “So what?”

“ _So_ …there’s not really any precedent for it,” she tells him, but before Lance can protest, she stares past him, gaze thoughtful, and muses, “Though I suppose I can _set_ the precedent.”

Lance cheers.

“But before you celebrate,” Pidge says, holding up a hand, “I haven’t promised anything.”

Lance sags, groaning. “You’re so hard to win over, Pidge.”

She smirks and admits, “It’s always been a point of pride for me.”

“All right, then…if you don’t take humans for joy rides in your free time, what _do_ you do?”

Pidge snorts. “With what free time? People die all the time, and I have to collect their souls.” She frowns, suddenly down again.

“Hey, none of that,” Lance protests, resting his hand on her shoulder and regaining her attention. “For the rest of tonight, we only talk happy things.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Like what?”

“Well…” He considers, and when it comes to Pidge - when it comes to how shamefully _little_ time they’ve spent together - he wants to know everything she can possibly tell him. But he elects to begin with the basics:

“Where did you grow up?” Lance wonders.

Pidge shrugs and admits, “I didn’t really.”

“Uh…what?”

“Angels don’t age in the same way humans do,” she explains, cupping her hands. “We’re more…concept and thought than alive, really.”

“You seem very alive to me,” Lance says, frowning.

Pidge giggles. “Thanks, Lance.”

“But, wait, hold on, you have parents and a brother. Were you _born_? Were you ever even a baby?”

Pidge blinks, apparently taken aback by his question, but she eagerly plows ahead, “I was born, raised, and shaped by my parents, though not in the way you were. There’s no… _biology_ about it.”

“Is there any family resemblance?” Lance asks in what he hopes is a nonchalant tone.

(He’s not sure why he doesn’t want Pidge to know he met her brother, not when she doesn’t mention it herself.)

“There is,” Pidge says, nodding. “My brother was shaped from the same thoughts and ideas as I was - or, well”—she chuckles—”I guess _I_ was shaped from the same thoughts and ideas as _he_ was since he’s a few centuries older.”

His eyes pop and he screeches, “A few _centuries_?”

“Well…yes,” Pidge says, frowning. “How much older were your brothers?”

“A few years,” Lance tells her, “not a few _centuries_.”

“Huh,” Pidge says, tapping her chin. “Sometimes I forget how short a human’s life is.”

“Wait, wait, _wait_ ,” Lance says with a swipe of his arm. “How old are _you_?”

Pidge narrows her eyes thoughtfully and confesses, “I’m not sure. At least two centuries, I think.”

Lance, beginning to feel lightheaded, lies down on the blanket. “This is weird,” he tells her.

“I consider _you_ the weird one,” Pidge retorts, “but I suppose it’s a matter of perspective.”

“No kidding.”

“We do mature a bit in our lives,” Pidge adds. “Maybe at a different pace from you, but it happens. We’re not static.” She frowns, her gaze growing distant again.

“What’re you thinking about?” Lance asks before he can reconsider.

Pidge shakes her head, eyes pinching shut briefly before they land on him. “I’m just…I think I’ve changed so much more since I met you than I ever did before.”

“You’re welcome,” Lance says, smirking and snapping his fingers.

Pidge frowns at him. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing yet, Lance.”

“Well,” he says, “until you figure it out, I’m pleased to continue to offer my life-changing services.”

“I’m ever so grateful,” Pidge deadpans.

She lies down beside him on the blanket, shifting until their shoulders touch and their hands nearly overlap. Lance swallows and resists the urge to turn towards her, or even to simply take her hand.

The line between friends and lovers is a blurry one, Lance realizes, at least for the two of them.

“What else then?” he asks, pushing that thought from his mind. “If you don’t grow up the same way we do, what else is different?”

Pidge shrugs, her shoulder nudging his, and says, “I don’t know. Depends on what.”

“Do you need to eat?”

“No,” Pidge tells him, “but I like eating.”

Lance snorts and wonders, “What do you like eating?”

“What you consider junk food, mostly,” Pidge admits, laughing. “I like popcorn—”

“I noticed.”

“—peanut butter, chocolate, peanut butter _with_ chocolate, and—”

“What about pancakes?” Lance interrupts her, an idea taking root.

“I’ve never had those.” Pidge sits up, looking down at him. “What are they?”

“Never had _pancakes_?” Lance gasps, feigning offense, and at Pidge’s annoyed pout he chuckles and explains, “They’re these flat cake or bread things”—he presses his hands together—”and you pour syrup on them to sweeten them. If you want you can add other stuff to the batter or as toppings too.” He grins at her. “That’s something I can actually make better than Hunk.”

“Pancakes?” Pidge says, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Yup,” Lance says proudly. “So…stay the night and in the morning I’ll make you chocolate peanut butter pancakes for breakfast before I go to work?”

Pidge seems to consider, eyes drifting away from his face for a few heart-stopping seconds before she nods and says, “Yes, but they’d better be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

Lance smiles and promises, “They’ll be better than angel food cake.”

“Angel food cake?”

Lance blinks at her, laughs, and says, “Never mind.”

Pidge rolls her eyes but doesn’t ask for an explanation.

Lance stares up at the sky, but except for the moon and the occasional plane or helicopter, nothing lights it up from beyond. He sighs and asks Pidge, “How do the stars look from the air?”

He shifts while he waits for Pidge to answer, grimacing at an ache in his shoulder from lying on concrete with only a blanket between them, but then small, warm hands hold either side of his head.

“Better?” Pidge wonders after his head rests in her lap.

Her legs are bony under the fabric of her pants and don’t make the best pillow, but she’s warmer and still softer than the roof. “Better. Why?”

“I got tired of watching you fidget,” she says with a light laugh. “And to answer your question…the stars are no closer from the air than they are from the ground.”

“But…do you feel like you could touch them if you wanted to?”

Pidge hums. “Sometimes,” she says, “but I think it’s less about being in the air than it is about flying.”

Lance glances up at her, smiling at the thoughtful look on her face. “Well, then how about this:  do you like them better from the ground or from the air?”

“The air, without question,” Pidge says, lightly smacking him in the shoulder as if offended.

Lance laughs and wonders, “Does your family think of space as much as you do?”

“They do,” Pidge says. She smiles.

“Tell me about them.”

She stares down at him. “What?”

Lance shrugs and says, “You barely mention them, but when you do I can tell you love them. So…care to share?”

Pidge bites her lip, averts her eyes. “I…what about your family?”

“What about mine?”

“You never talk about them either.”

Lance frowns and rubs his face. “Pidge, my family’s all dead.” He sighs, his heart sinking where moments ago it felt light. “I have nothing new to say about them.”

“Sure you do,” Pidge says. “It’s all in your memories.”

“Is it?” Lance snorts, considers his mother, whose face he barely remembers. Was it her eyes that were blue, or did those belong to his father?

“I have a brother,” Pidge reminds him. “Did you have any?”

“Two,” Lance tells her, “and a sister. I’m the youngest.” He laughs, more bitterly than he means. “Or, I _was_ the youngest.”

“I’m the younger one too,” Pidge says. Her hands play with his hair, almost idly, and Lance wonders if she does it on purpose.

Intentional or not, her fingernails feel pleasant scraping against his scalp, calming and warming him and mitigating his melancholy at thoughts of his family. They still his mind, and it becomes an effort to keep his eyes open.

Lance falls asleep to the sound of Pidge’s voice while she begins a story about her brother, and when he wakes up, groggy and with a heavy head, it’s to Pidge’s hand clutching his shoulder and her question entering his ear.

“Do you like watching the sunrise as much as you like watching sunsets?”

“…huh?” Lance rubs his eyes as he sits up. “Yeah, I do.” He glances from Pidge to the faintly lighter sky towards the east.

Below his apartment building the city streets are already awake, though they never went to sleep, but above the city the sky welcomes the sun, vivid shades of red and orange spreading from the horizon.

It takes Lance’s breath away every time he watches it.

There’s something different about a sunrise, even in a crowded, busy city, something a sunset doesn’t have. It’s potential rather than a cap on the day, and it’s special in that only a few care to be awake to watch it.

Lance glances at Pidge, notes the slight smile on her face as she keeps her eyes trained on the eastern horizon, and something in his chest loosens. She then turns towards him, meeting his eyes, and her smile widens.

“How did you sleep?” she asks, voice low so that it won’t disrupt the tranquil atmosphere around them.

Lance shrugs, rolling his shoulders back to work out an ache in them. “As well as I can on the ground,” he says, laughing. “I appreciated the pillow though.”

Pidge grins, a slight flush on her cheeks, and says, “Consider it payment for breakfast.”

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Does that mean you’ll demand a refund if you don’t like my breakfast?”

Pidge points at him. “You promised your pancakes would be better than ‘angel food cake’,” she said, using air quotes, “and I may not know what that is—”

“It’s just a kind of cake and I thought you would find its name funny,” Lance cuts in, rolling his eyes.

“Whatever,” Pidge says, “but your pancakes had better be delicious.”

Lance gets to his feet, stretching his arms over his head with a groan before offering Pidge a hand. “I promise you won’t regret trying them.”

Pidge accepts his hand, and he tugs her to her feet. But they don’t let go, and she says, “If they’re as good as you think, then maybe I’ll try to visit you more often.”

Lance screeches, indignant, and retorts, “You’ll visit for my _pancakes_ but not for my _company_?”

Pidge smirks as he tugs her towards the building entrance. “Maybe I just always needed a little extra incentive.”

Lance laughs, and though he knows she’s joking, he says, “If I’d known that’s all it took, I would’ve cooked you breakfast decades ago.”

In the kitchen, Pidge assembles all the ingredients while he gets the griddle out from a cabinet. He plugs it into an outlet to preheat, then starts measuring flour and oil from memory and dumping everything in the same bowl.

Pidge rests her elbows on the counter, leaning towards him to watch him work. “Where do the chocolate and peanut butter come in?” she asks with a frown.

“Patience, my dear Pidge,” Lance says. He cracks an egg over the bowl, then scowls when he has to fish out a shard of eggshell.

And then is the moment that Pidge was waiting for.

Lance dumps a generous amount of chocolate and peanut butter chips into the bowl before mixing it all together, and when Pidge tries to stick her finger in to sample, he smacks her hand away. “There are raw eggs in this!” he scolds her.

Pidge raises an eyebrow at him. “So? I can’t get sick, and…well, neither can you, Lance. Remember?”

Lance drops the rubber spatula into the bowl with a splash, too busy gaping at her. “Oh,” he says. Then he buries his face in his hands and moans, “I’ve been depriving myself of raw cookie dough for no reason this _entire time_?”

Pidge snickers, and when he shoots her a reproachful glare she holds her hands up. “I’m just reminding you of something you already knew.”

Lance resumes mixing, grumbling under his breath until all the lumps of flour are dispersed. By then, the griddle is hot, and he pours the first of the batter onto its surface.

The puddle of batter sizzles as it spreads, steam rising from it. Pidge inches closer, eyes wide and curious, and asks, “How do you know when it’s done?”

“When they’re a nice golden brown,” Lance says, “just like your eyes.”

Pidge blinks at him. “Is that a compliment?”

Heat rises to Lance’s cheeks, and he rubs the back of his neck. “I guess so, yeah.”

Once the pancake is the right color, the chocolate and peanut butter melting in the batter and darkening it more, Lance flips it off the griddle and into a plate before handing it to Pidge.

“Savor every bite,” he tells her right before directing her to the bottle of syrup.

Pidge stares from the pancake to the syrup bottle. “That’s a lot of sugar, Lance,” she says.

“What?” Lance teases, quirking an eyebrow at her. “Are you telling me an angel needs to be on a low-carb diet?”

Pidge snorts, then upends the bottle onto the pancake. “You’re lucky I love sweets.”

“Whoa, whoa!” Lance says. “You’re not going to be able to taste the _pancake_ if you add that much syrup, Pidge.”

“Maybe that’s the point?” Pidge caps the bottle and sets it aside. Then she reaches for a fork and takes the first bite.

Lance watches her face eagerly, watches her chew almost pensively before putting her fork back down.

“Huh,” she says, “maybe I’ve finally exceeded the upper limit of my tolerance for sugar.”

It takes a moment for him to understand her meaning, but when he does he doubles over laughing. After he catches his breath, he says, “I’ll make you another one.”

“Please do,” Pidge says. “Or…wait, can I make it?”

Lance frowns at her, then at the hot griddle and bowl of batter. “Sure, why not?” He gives her the bowl.

Pidge pours it onto the griddle, frowning in concentration as she does. But she flinches when a drop splashes from the griddle and lands on her cheek.

“Great,” she grumbles, setting the bowl aside and reaching for a towel.

Lance is faster.

He dips two fingers into the bowl and smears batter onto Pidge’s forehead.

“Hey!” Pidge exclaims. She glares at him, but before Lance can feel too smug, she grabs the rubber spatula and swings it.

Pancake batter splashes onto his pajamas, his face, and into his hair. He yelps as some even slides down the front of his shirt, and darts towards Pidge before she can scoop up even more batter to fling at him.

Lance’s fingers close around her wrist, and they wrestle for the spatula. He’s taller and bigger than she is, but Pidge bears impressive strength and fights dirty. He earns an elbow in the ribs, and when his grip loosens with a grunt, she uses the spatula to smear more batter into his hair.

“My hair!” he screeches, letting go and jumping away from her. “Not my hair!”

“Oh, maybe you’re right,” Pidge says as she brandishes the spatula like a sword. “I like your hair, so it would be a shame to ruin it.”

Lance’s heart skips a beat. “Yes, it would,” he retorts, but he broadens his stance, arms held out and ready to fend off any attack Pidge throws at him.

Pidge takes a step towards him, and Lance takes a step back. Then again, until his back hits the counter and Pidge is only a foot away, smirking up at him. She reaches around him for the bowl, which miraculously still has some batter in it, and as Lance’s blood rushes she scoops up some batter with her fingers and swipes it across his forehead.

“There,” she says, nodding as she inspects her handiwork. “I’m avenged.”

Lance snorts, then surveys the mess they made of the kitchen. “Maybe it’s a good thing Hunk doesn’t live with me anymore.”

“Maybe,” Pidge muses. Then she picks at the front of his shirt, prying it off his sticky chest.

Lance holds his breath, suddenly conscious of how little space lies between them, that she has him backed up against a counter and he can see every individual lash on her eyelids when she blinks.

He wants to kiss her again.

 _Friends,_ he reminds himself, _not lovers._

But it’s hard to pull back when her eyes hold him in place and her hand lingers on his chest, featherlight and almost hesitant. His breath catches as her gaze drifts down to his mouth and knows she wants it too.

“Pidge—”

She stares past him, eyes widening in what he thinks might be horror. A chill travels up his spine, and a heavy knot builds in his stomach.

“I have to go,” she says without looking at him. “There’s an emergency.”

“But, your pancakes—”

“Lance,” she says, and she takes his hand, tangling their fingers. “Please stay home today.”

“Why?” he asks, blinking at her. “I have to go to work. What’s going on?”

“I-I’m not sure yet,” she admits, “but it’s bad, and I think it’s going to get worse.”

Lance’s jaw drops. “Wait, but how do you—”

She flickers out of sight before the words leave his mouth, leaving Lance alone in a dirty kitchen, eerily silent where their laughter filled it mere minutes ago.

* * *

 

Lance stares at his reflection inside the mug of coffee and stifles another yawn. His lack of sleep the night before - and the few hours he snatched on the roof - is already starting to catch up with him, and the school day has only just begun.

He massages his temples as his students take out their math homework, grumbling amongst themselves about times tables. He inhales, bracing himself to look more alert than he feels, and stands, ready to collect their homework and start the day’s lessons, but before he can take more than a few students’ assignments, the door bursts open.

Louise stands in the doorway and, ignoring the curious stares of the class, approaches Lance. Her eyes are wide and, if he’s to guess, frightened.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

She leans towards him, speaking directly into his ear, and the more she says, the faster his heart pounds. And she caps her rapid rush of words by saying, “Act naturally.”

He stares at her in surprise. “But—”

“It’s fine,” she tells him, though her voice trembles slightly. “We’ll find out if anything changes.”

Louise then rushes from the classroom, either back to her own class or to alert other teachers of what’s going on. Lance stares after her, stunned and uncertain, and he has the sneaking suspicion that he’s lived this day before.

Just never in a city filled with people, where children gaze up at him expectantly waiting for him to teach them like they do every day.

 _Act naturally._ What’s “natural” when the world burns down mere miles away?

But Lance tries, and though the rest of the day passes in a feverish, exhausted blur he thinks he does a good job of it.

Until parents call asking to pick up their children, and when his class is smaller by half, it’s harder to keep up the facade.

The commute home on the subway is tense and fraught, and other passengers snap irritably at each other or else stay silent. Everyone rushes to get home, everyone wants to hug and kiss their children and their spouses and call their friends.

Even Lance.

He picks up the phone and dials Hunk’s number as soon as he walks through the door. He doesn’t even wait to take off his shoes - the kitchen is still dirty after that morning with Pidge anyway - or drop his bag, just leans against the wall and listens to the line connecting.

“Hello?”

Lance takes a deep breath, his heartbeat slowing at the sound of a familiar voice, a near and dear friend, and says, “Hey, Hunk.”

“Lance!” Hunk shouts, and Lance recoils. “Oh, God, are you okay?”

“Well…yeah,” Lance says. “It’s not—it’s not like I live in _Manhattan_.”

“Yeah, but, Lance—”

“I’m a little shaken up,” he says, smiling and hoping Hunk hears it in his voice. “That’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it was just…right there.” Lance sighs and rubs his face. “I haven’t even watched the news yet, and I can’t even imagine how Pidge feels.”

His eyes widen, and he snorts. “She warned me,” he realizes, recalling that morning.

“Pidge?” Hunk says. “Wait, hold on, you’re seeing her again?”

Lance’s eyes widen as his brain catches up with his mouth. “No, this was just a _general_ warning from the last time I saw her,” he lies, forcing a laugh. “You know, a warning to stay safe, as any good angel of death would tell someone immortal.”

“Lance,” Hunk says, tone stern, “I can tell you’re lying.”

He mutters, “Yes, I’ve seen her again, but I can never predict when.”

“Are you sure it’s a good idea though?” Hunk wonders. “Wait, are you still in love with her?”

Lance’s heart stutters in his chest, and he confesses, “Yeah, I am.”

“Well, I guess that explains why you can’t cut her out of your life.”

“Sometimes she does that well enough without my help,” Lance says, unable to keep the sudden, bitter edge from his voice.

“Then why—”

“It’s not her fault though,” Lance adds quickly, waving a hand in an attempt to seem dismissive. “She might be hiding some things from me, but I know that, if she could, we’d see each other more.”

“So that whole… _temporary_ immortality thing doesn’t bother you anymore?”

“It…well, to be honest, I’m not sure it ever did.” Lance straightens and runs his fingers through his hair, thinking of every time he stared death in the face just to survive. “Immortality might be overrated anyway.”

“Oh, for sure,” Hunk agrees, “and I haven’t even lived as long as you yet.”

Lance laughs at the absurdity of it all. Then he frowns and admits, “I can’t wait to leave New York. I’ve been here for too long.”

“Los Angeles next, huh?”

Lance nods. “Any chance I can live with you in San Francisco and commute from there?”

“Only if you’re commuting in a plane, which I guess you are.”

Lance chuckles, and they chat about meaningless things for a few more minutes, until Hunk tells him he has to go back to work. Lance mentions having a kitchen to clean, and before Hunk can ask what fresh disaster he wrought, he bids him goodbye and hangs up.

Then Lance faces his kitchen, hands on his hips, and regrets all his life choices leading up to this moment.

“Dammit, Pidge,” he grumbles, crossing his arms. “If it wasn’t for what happened, I would’ve thought you left early just to avoid this mess.” He sighs and takes cleaning supplies out from under the sink before starting to scrub the dried batter stains on the tile and counters.

When he’s done, Lance rests his cheek against the cool and clean tiles, too exhausted to get up…until his stomach growls. “I know,” he tells it, “but I’m too tired to cook anything.”

He picks himself off the floor and inspects the contents of his refrigerator, then decides on making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “It’s a classic,” he says as he smears peanut butter onto a slice of toasted bread, “and one I think Pidge would appreciate.”

With a sandwich in one hand and a glass of milk in the other, Lance walks into the living room and sprawls on the sofa.

He makes the mistake of turning on the television.

His stomach turns at the sight of the footage, the same video playing over and over again while news anchors speak over it. He can’t help imagining so many trapped inside the towers, so many with their bodies turned to ash. So many with their lives cut short, their families never seeing them - not even a body to bury - again.

And Lance would’ve survived it, though not unscathed.

Appetite gone, Lance sets his half-eaten sandwich aside and turns off the news.

“What a world we live in,” he says.

Sometimes, Lance is _relieved_ his family isn’t around to see horrors like this, that his parents didn’t survive to live through World War Two or Castro’s revolution. His mother, gentle soul that she was, tried dissuading him in enlisting in his first war, and hers is the voice in his head that asks _why_.

“Huh,” Lance says. “Is that what it takes to remember her voice?”

The very thought makes his heart heavy.

He stands, taking his leftover dinner to the kitchen, and retreats to his bedroom, hoping that maybe tonight he can sleep like the dead.

But then arms wind around his torso, and a warm body presses against his back. He can feel a tremor as the arms around him tighten.

“Pidge,” he says, his lips shifting into an involuntary smile. He covers her hand with his where it rests on his chest, right over his heart. But he glances over his shoulder at her when he feels her tremble again and says, “Are you hurt?”

He feels more than he sees her shake her head.

“Ah, right, I should’ve known,” he quips. “Angels of death don’t get hurt, they just get—”

Pidge’s fingers grip the fabric of his shirt as she shakes. “P-please don’t j-joke now, Lance,” she says, voice hoarse. “N-not yet.”

Lance’s chest tightens at the emotion in her voice. He’s never heard her affected like this, and he’s never seen her cry, much less felt her trembling against him.

“Can I hold you then?” he asks her softly while he rubs up and down her arm.

Pidge nods, and when her arms loosen he turns around and hugs her. Her head fits snugly under his chin, her face pressed against his chest while she clutches at the back of his shirt, as the first sob breaks from her.

Lance holds her tight, so tight he thinks he might break her with just a bit more force. But she doesn’t complain, her own grip strong enough that he struggles to breathe.

He rocks back and forth on his feet while Pidge cries and shakes against him, humming an old lullaby - one his mother once sang to him, one he’s surprised he remembers.

When Pidge finally stills, her hold on him loosening though she doesn’t let go, Lance asks, “Do you want some peanut butter and jelly?”

Pidge huffs, and Lance thinks it might be an attempt at laughter, muffled in his shirt. But then she nods, and Lance smiles as he guides her to the kitchen.

He _attempts_ to guide her to the kitchen, and when she doesn’t pull away, she walks backwards while he walks forwards, their limbs still tangled. But when they stand in front of the counter, he tells her, “I can’t make you a sandwich if you keep clinging to me like this, Pidge.”

“I believe in you,” she says without lifting her head.

Lance sighs but somehow manages to retrieve everything he needs. “Do you want your bread toasted?”

Pidge shakes her head, then adds, “No crust.”

“As you wish,” he says, and despite the fondness he hears in his own tone, he rolls his eyes.

By the time Lance finishes the sandwich, Pidge finally extricates herself from him, though she keeps an arm around him.

“It’s like you’re worried _I_ _’ll_ disappear this time,” he teases her when he hands her a plate with the sandwich.

Pidge’s eyes are red with tear tracks on her cheeks as she picks up the sandwich. “I…maybe I am,” she admits quietly.

Lance gapes at her. “I can’t teleport like you can,” he points out, “ _and_ I’m immortal, remember?”

Pidge tears at the bread of her sandwich without taking a bite and doesn’t look at him when she says, “You won’t always be.”

Lance’s heart skips a beat at her words, the first hint that’s slipped out of her mentioning what he already knew. “Pidge—”

“I’m just tired of seeing people die without understanding _why_ ,” she says. She steps away from him, pacing the length of the small kitchen with a scowl on her face. “Why do people die? And why do they die the way they do?” Her hands curl into fists, and she glares past him, at nothing…or at something he can’t see. “I just…I don’t _understand_ , and I _hate_ that.” She buries her face in her hands, and this time Lance knows she cries out of frustration rather than overwhelming grief.

Gently, he tugs her hands away from her face, his heart aching for her, and asks, “How would you find out?”

Pidge blinks through her tears. “What?”

“You asked a question,” he says, “but you want an answer. How do you find it?”

“I-I already tried that,” she confesses.

“You have?”

Pidge nods and adds, “Long before I met you, I…poked my nose where it didn’t belong.”

Lance raises an eyebrow at her, his heart pounding fast. “And…?”

Pidge shakes her head and looks at the floor between their feet. “I didn’t find anything,” she says.

Lance senses there’s more to this story than Pidge lets on, but for now he won’t sate his curiosity. Instead he tugs Pidge back to her discarded plate and says, “Eat. Maybe you’ll feel better after you do, and since you like peanut butter…”

Pidge sighs but lets go of one of his hands to pick up her sandwich. She nibbles at an edge, but after a few seconds she takes bigger bites until all that’s left are crumbs and a speck of strawberry jelly stuck above her lip.

“You got a little…” Lance points to his own lip.

Pidge narrows her eyes at him, then tries to lick it away. When she misses, Lance laughs and wipes it off with his thumb.

Her face reddens, but then she wonders, “What about you?”

Lance frowns. “What about me?”

Pidge squeezes his hand. “You…well, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Lance says immediately, and when Pidge wrinkles her nose, he raises a hand and amends, “I’m kind of shaken, but Pidge, I’ve lived through some bad stuff, and I wasn’t even there today!”

“But you were close.”

“Yeah, I was close.” Lance slumps and sighs. “It was hard keeping up a brave face all day,” he admits. “Didn’t want my kids to be scared.”

“Your…?”

“My students.” Lance brightens. “Didn’t you know I’m a teacher now? Though I won’t be after this year, I guess.”

“Oh, Lance, about that…” When he shoots her a questioning glance, she asks, “D-do you still want to fly a plane?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation.

“But what if—”

“It’s just a risk I’ll have to take,” Lance cuts her off. “It’s a pretty _small_ risk, and I miss flying so much so I think it’s worth it.” He spreads his arms. “You love flying too, Pidge, so just _imagine_ what it would be like if you couldn’t do it anymore.”

Pidge stares at him, then shakes her head. “I don’t want to.”

“Exactly!” Lance says, grinning. “I can’t be grounded so easily.” He takes her hands in his again, and when she looks up he adds, “I appreciate your concern though.”

No, he _loves_ her concern, and loves the warmth and the flutter in his stomach that come with it. But he doesn’t love the way she looks at him now, her eyebrows drawn together with worry.

He hates that she worries, about anything, and wishes he could wipe her concerns away as easily as he wiped the speck of jam from her face.

Pidge bites her lip, but then she nods and says, “You’re right.”

“Thank you for giving me my due, Pidge,” Lance teases.

Pidge snorts, and it’s the first trace of humor he’s seen on her since she first hugged him from behind. “Oh, you’re very welcome, Lance.”

“Do you need something?” he wonders. “Something else to eat or—”

“I just need rest,” she says. “It’s been an exhausting day and I feel more drained than I have in a long time.”

“Oh,” Lance says, frowning. His heart sinks, and his grip on her hands tighten as he expects her to disappear any second.

But she doesn’t, instead saying, “I’m too tired to go anywhere else today. I…used most of my remaining strength to get here.”

Lance blinks at her, but when he comprehends a smile stretches across his face. “Say no more,” he tells her. “You can spend the night.”

He has to stop himself from adding, _“Or every night.”_

Lance leads Pidge to his bedroom, which, in any other context, might make his heart pound and the blood rush to his face. But even on this short walk he can tell Pidge is struggling to stay conscious and cognizant.

He’s barely stepped into the room when Pidge collapses onto the bed, curling up into a ball. She doesn’t even slip under the covers or make sure her head is on a pillow, so Lance takes a spare blanket from his closet and drapes it over her.

Her eyes are already closed, and she breathes deeply. And though he knows from what she’s told him that angels don’t “sleep”, it looks close enough to him.

He changes into pajamas in the bathroom, just in case Pidge wakes up, and when he’s done he joins her.

He rolls onto his side, facing her, watching the minute changes on her face:  the way her lips twitch as she breathes, her eyelashes fluttering, her hair stirred by her breath…

Lance wants to pull her towards him, to fall asleep with her in his arms. Instead, so he can’t succumb to that temptation, he lies on his back and closes his eyes, humming his mother’s lullaby.

He sleeps dreamlessly and wakes up warm and comfortable. When he opens his eyes he sees that Pidge has migrated towards him, one of her legs tangled with his and her face pressed against his shoulder and her body pinning his arm.

Lance laughs, trying to move his numb arm out from under her, but when she shifts, he falls still and decides against it.

He has no desire to disrupt this moment.

He turns his head so that his nose brushes her hair and inhales that scent that always seems to linger on her. “Te quiero,” he says softly, so softly he thinks she won’t hear him. “Te quiero.”

* * *

 

Everyone always says that landing is the hardest part of flying, and Lance agrees. But that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy the rush of success that comes with a successful touchdown.

“Nice one, Lance,” Rick, the captain, says from beside him. “Just a bit shaky getting on the ground, but I barely felt it.”

Lance can’t help preening under his superior’s praise - though he’s technically old enough to be Rick’s father. But while the controls of a modern commercial jet aren’t much different than those of a fighter plane from World War Two, it still took adjusting to the size of the aircraft and the sheer _power_ in the engines.

Luckily Lance has always been a quick study.

Lance guides the plane down the runway, taxiing towards the terminal while Rick calls out the occasional warning for other, much smaller vehicles navigating the tarmac.

By now he’s done this more times than he can count, but it’s one of the duller parts of being a commercial pilot.

Not as dull - nor as detailed - as the post-flight check though.

Lance’s eyelids droop after the post-flight check, and after four flights in a single day. He’s _accustomed_ to it, but even his third cup of coffee fails to keep him perky after an hour on the ground.

“Got any plans tonight?” Rick asks once they’ve filed into the terminal behind the flight attendants.

“Yeah,” Lance says, grinning. “An old friend of mine lives here in San Francisco. I’m visiting and crashing at his place instead of staying at a hotel.”

“Ah.” Rick smiles. “Does he have a bed for you?”

Lance laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “Just a sofa, sadly.”

“And you prefer that to a hotel?”

Lance shrugs and admits, “I prefer his company to an empty hotel room.”

Rick pats his shoulder. “That’s good for you then, as long as you’re here bright and early in the morning.”

Lance sighs. “I’ll get some coffee down, and maybe if you let me nap during the first flight—”

Rick’s chuckles cut him off, and he says, “Not a chance, Lance.”

“I didn’t think so,” Lance says with an amused snort.

Hunk is already waiting for him outside arrivals as Lance exits the airport while an attendant gives him a dirty look for parking. A wide smile splits his face when their eyes meet, and Lance has to stop himself from sprinting.

Lance hasn’t seen Hunk since he moved out of their shared apartment in New York, and it shows in how tightly and _warmly_ he hugs him.

Laughter bubbles out of Lance as he claps Hunk’s back. “Oh, buddy, I missed you too.”

Hunk pulls away, hands on his shoulders, and frowns as if he’s inspecting him for… _something_.

Lance raises an eyebrow at him. “Is there something on my face?” He touches his cheek, then his chin.

Hunk grins again and says, “No, it’s just that for some reason I imagined you with a beard, and I’m a little disappointed that I’m wrong.”

“A _beard_?” Lance snorts as he gets into the passenger side of Hunk’s car.

“Yeah.” Hunk slams his door shut and pulls into traffic after turning on the engine. “You know, it’s like when you don’t see anyone for a while, you expect something about them to change.”

Lance pulls down the sun visor and stares at his small reflection. “Uh…we’ve been apart for longer than this before, Hunk,” he points out.

“Okay, fine,” Hunk says, rolling his eyes, “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Have _you_ ever thought of growing one again?” Lance wonders, propping his elbow on the armrest and smirking at him.

After a brief hesitation, Hunk says, “Because it _totally_ worked out the last time I did.”

Lance bursts into laughter, then tells him, “I _did_ have one once.” He scratches at his beardless but stubbly chin. “It’s too itchy, so not worth it.”

Idly, he wonders if Pidge would like him in one…

His heart aches familiarly as he thinks of the last time he saw her, when she blinked the drowsiness from her eyes and pulled away from him wordlessly. And then he asked her to stay for breakfast, that he could make her pancakes _properly_ , but she left in a hurry, eyes wide with alarm or fear or both, speaking right before disappearing:

_“I shouldn’t have stayed this long.”_

Distantly Lance hears Hunk talking, and he shakes himself from the bittersweet memory of the warmth of another body and tangled bedsheets to listen.

“…could try this new Thai place that opened near my apartment.”

“Oh, well, you’re the food man,” Lance says without pause. “I trust your judgment in all things food, Hunk.”

Hunk glances sideways at him. “You okay, Lance?”

Lance swallows and covers a well-timed yawn. “Just tired, mostly.” He stretches, extending his arms behind him with a groan. “Four flights in one day, man.”

“But it’s not like you piloted all of them,” Hunk points out. Then he narrows his eyes and says, “I can tell you’re lying.”

Lance rubs his face. “I…it’s—” He cuts himself off, frustrated, and folds his arms on the car door, staring out the window. “It’s Pidge.”

“Something happen between you?” Hunk asks.

Lance shrugs. “I wish,” he says, “and I have a feeling she wishes too.”

“Then, well, I guess it’s a weird complicated thing you have going, huh?”

Lance laughs and pushes the hair just long enough to tickle his face away. “Hunk, you don’t know the half of it.”

No, he still hasn’t told him about _Pidge_ being the one to collect both of their souls when they die. It’s information he feels he should keep close to his chest for now, something to be discussed with Pidge before he can ever come clean about it to Hunk.

They catch up on the last few years over pad Thai and curry while Hunk extols the merits of San Francisco versus New York City.

(”I prefer the weather here,” he says, “but I wish it wasn’t so _gloomy_ all the time.”

“But it doesn’t snow?”

“It doesn’t _snow_.”)

At Hunk’s tiny one-bedroom apartment, they stay up chatting about nothing and everything until Lance can barely keep his eyes open. Hunk retreats into the bedroom, and Lance settles under a blanket with his head on a spare pillow.

Lance stares up at the ceiling, already dreading the end of this brief visit, and he only sleeps lightly with no space to stretch his limbs.

He wakes up before Hunk, who cheerfully makes him a breakfast of eggs and potatoes before driving him back to the airport. Outside the terminal, Hunk hugs him again, his eyes red, and says, “Don’t be a stranger.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Lance replies.

His heart is heavy as he walks into the crew room, and he barely has the energy to muster a smile for Rick.

“You all right, Lance?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Lance says. “Just feeling a little homesick.”

“Well, we’ll be flying back to LA at the end of today,” Rick reminds him, “and then you’ll have the weekend with your family or your girlfriend or whoever it is you have back home.”

 _If only,_ Lance thinks.

(During the flight, he talks to the Guatemalan flight attendant in Spanish, just to hear the sound.)

* * *

 

Sometimes Lance wonders what Keith’s been doing lately, if he still flies planes, or if he ever even stopped. Sometimes Lance regrets not keeping in touch after the war, and sometimes he imagines Keith as the pilot sitting in the cockpit with him.

Though Lance likes Rick, though he considers him a friend and speaks of him fondly whenever he mentions him to Hunk, he’s someone he still holds at a distance. When Rick asks him questions about his family, about friends and if he’s married or has a girlfriend, Lance obfuscates as best as he can.

“You went to college before flight school?” Rick wonders once.

“Yeah,” Lance says. “University of Florida.”

“You from there?”

“Nope,” Lance says. He leans back in his seat, relaxed since Rick is the pilot for this flight. “Lived in Florida for a while though.”

“Then where did you grow up?”

Lance swallows and admits, “Cuba.”

Rick’s gaze swivels to him, eyes wide in surprise. “Really,” he says.

Lance can tell he wants to ask something like _how_ or _when_ , as it’s a face he’s seen on many others he’s dared to be honest with about his birthplace lately. “Yeah, really,” he says, “and before you ask, I swam to Key West from Havana.”

Rick snorts, smiling, but before he can ask a followup, the altimeter indicates they’re below twenty thousand feet and all personal conversation ceases.

For his part, Lance is curious about Rick’s life as well. He knows that Rick is happily divorced - still friendly with his ex-wife - with three children, all of whom have at least two children of their own. He carries family photos around in his wallet and even wears a bright yellow bracelet woven for him by one of his granddaughters.

He complains that his children all think he ought to retire, but he jokes that his wife left him because of his lifetime affair with flight.

Lance has seen Rick taking his blood pressure medication between flights, so he understands their concerns.

Rick’s sense of humor is also that of a younger man, at least in Lance’s opinion, which is why it comes as no surprise that he asks Lance to watch _Snakes on a Plane_ with him when they’re in Houston on a night between flights. Lance agrees, because he has nothing better to do, and they spend most of the movie laughing at the absurdity of it all.

“See, none of my children would’ve wanted to watch it with me,” Rick tells him the following morning before their first flight. “They’d think it would _spook_ me, as if anything like that can after all these years flying.”

“Yeah,” Lance says, chuckling between sips of coffee. “You’re not Indiana Jones.”

“Exactly!”

“I can see where your children are coming from,” Lance concedes. “I’ve never been able to sit through a World War Two movie without having at least a nightmare afterward.”

Rick pats his shoulder. “My uncle died in the war, so I can understand that.”

Lance swallows and laughs nervously, regretting what he said but relieved that Rick took it the way he did.

“Then what’s the worst movie you ever saw in theaters?” Rick wonders.

Lance blinks at him, then, without hesitation, tells him, “ _Titanic_.”

“Really?” Rick raises an eyebrow at him. “Too romantic for you?”

Lance raises his coffee cup, as if toasting him, and confesses, “I watched it with the wrong woman.”

Sometimes, he’s amazed at how easily Rick can wrangle certain information out of him, but sometimes the captain reminds him of his father, steady and confident in his age.

Rick smiles. “Did it eventually work out?”

Lance snorts into his coffee. “God, I wish.” But his amusement vanishes at the thought of Pidge. “I don’t know that it’ll ever work out.”

“Either it will,” Rick tells him, “or it’s not meant to be and you’ll get past it. I’m old, son, so I know what I’m talking about.”

Lance can’t resist rolling his eyes, though he appreciates the sentiment. But he and Pidge have been dancing around each other for _decades_ , and he sees her so sporadically that it’s too easy for him to imagine that one day she’ll forget to simply _visit_.

He’s saved the obligation of responding by Rick standing and alerting him that it’s time to perform their pre-flight check. They split up for this, walking around the plane’s exterior and scrutinizing every corner of it, before meeting in the plane’s cockpit and checking that everything else is in order there.

“Flying home again,” Rick reminds him.

Lance nods in agreement and says, “I’ll take the first flight.”

The takeoff of a flight exhilarates Lance more than any other part, for though it’s almost as difficult as landing, it makes his blood rush and his focus narrow to a point. He barely hears anything beyond the cacophony of the engine, and the sight outside the window sharpens.

Cruising, by comparison, is dull, but he can relax at twenty thousand feet, though not so much that something important escapes his notice.

An indicator light flashes red along with the blaring of an alarm, and Lance’s eyes widen as his heart pounds and he understands what it means. He alerts the passengers to put on their seat belts and asks Rick, “Do you see what I’m seeing?”

“I do,” Rick says, his jaw clenched as he appraises the indicator.

But then they lose altitude, and they lose it _fast_ , dropping several hundred feet at once. His heart jumps into his throat, and with the part of his mind that isn’t screaming, Lance forces himself to focus, to block out the continuous blaring of the alarm and the distant fearful yelps of the passengers in the cabin behind him.

And the flicker of a familiar figure in the corner of his eye.

His breath catches, but he has no time to think about what he just saw, has no time to contemplate the sound of an urgent whisper - of his _name_ \- in his ear or the slight pressure on his shoulder. Instead he only thinks of righting the plane, pulling on the controls to level it again.

Lance doesn’t exhale until the altimeter’s needle stabilizes, but his heart still pounds listening to the alarm that indicates the engine is unstable.

“Captain, what do you—”

He cuts himself off when he sees that Rick’s unconscious, as if he’s _fainted_.

Lance takes a shuddering breath and considers his options.

In flight school his instructors always emphasized that a pilot can have over a hundred lives in their hands during each flight, so Lance diverts it, calling the air traffic control tower of the nearest airport and descending.

He relaxes somewhat once they land, and is quick to jump out of his seat to check on Rick.

“Captain, I diverted the plane,” he tells him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “We’re in—”

Rick isn’t breathing.

Lance inhales sharply, his heart picking up in pace again, and cautiously sticks his palm under the pilot’s nose.

No flicker of warm breath brushes his skin, and no pulse thrums under his fingers when he touches two to Rick’s neck.

“Rick…” Lance trails off as he swallows a sudden lump in his throat. “Y-you’re _younger_ than I am, dammit.”

A hand then curls around his, squeezing, but when Lance turns his head, Pidge is already gone.

* * *

 

The autopsy results show that Rick suffered a heart attack, but his children don’t seem to see it that way. They throw Lance dirty looks at the funeral, the anger brimming just under the surface one of the many emotions he reads on their faces.

Between their blame and the ongoing hearing, Lance can’t help the shame twisting in his stomach, wondering if they’re right.

The investigations performed by the airline and the boards conclude that an engine malfunction caused a failure, but Rick’s concurrent death muddies the issue.

Lance is thrown under the bus - or the wheels of a landing plane - and his judgment called into question.

“Could the problem in the engine have been found during the pre-flight check?” is a question that Lance hears from everyone, from _everywhere_ \- including the news broadcast through his television - after the incident, and it haunts him even when he’s alone in his apartment.

He’s grounded again, and this time he loses his piloting license.

 _I_ _’m just a scapegoat,_ Lance tells himself, but he’s still shaking - with anger, with grief, with _fear_ about his future - and it makes it difficult to simply insert his key into the lock on his front door.

The first thing he hears when he walks into his apartment is the television, the familiar voices of news anchors pouring from the speakers…and from them he hears his name.

He rolls his eyes but sags, calling out to whichever intruder broke into his living room, “I’ve been hearing about this all day, so would it kill you to watch something else?”

The television cuts off, and someone small barrels into him, forcing him to stumble backwards.

“Pidge?” he says.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Pidge tells him, her arms around him tightening. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stay and talk when it happened. I’m sorry—”

“Wait, Pidge…” The tightness in his chest that he thought permanent loosens as her warmth seeps into him, and relief and _joy_ at seeing her mingle with the sadness and anger that make his stomach twist. He returns her embrace and can’t help shuddering when she runs her fingers through his hair.

Lance finally chokes on a sob he’s been holding back for weeks, his frustration forcing them past the dam. He’s already confided some in Hunk, but Pidge and her presence have a different effect on him.

At the same time that she eases the heaviness in his heart, she also shares the burdens weighing on his shoulders.

Pidge holds him as he cries and says, “I know how much you love flying, Lance.”

The sound of his name falling from her lips grounds him somewhat, enough that he admits in a shaky voice, “Rick could’ve absolved me of this, but now he’s dead and I’m getting blamed for _that_ too.” He can’t help his bitter, _guilty_ tone, can’t help that his arms tighten around Pidge, worried that she’ll slip away if he lets go.

“Don’t leave me this time,” he mutters. “ _Please_.”

Pidge trembles, but her grip on him stays firm. “I’ll have to,” she says softly. “I don’t want to, but I’ll _have_ to.”

Her words fan the flames of his anger again, and he pulls away from her, holding himself stiffly. “Then why don’t you leave now?” he demands.

“Lance—”

“It’s not fair that you can see me whenever, but I have to _wait_ for you to see _me_.” Lance paces his living room, flailing his arms around and scowling. “Th-that’s not _fair_ , Pidge!”

“I know,” Pidge admits. She rubs her face, brushes hair that’s longer than he remembers out of her face. “Lance, I _know_ , and if-if you want me to leave I’ll—”

Panic rises within him, makes his heart pound again, and he grabs her wrist. “I didn’t mean that,” he tells her when she looks at him. “I just want to know _why_. Please explain it to me, and don’t leave it at you’re not _allowed_ , because you’re already breaking the rules by being here at all, right?” He meets her eyes, frowning, and then:

Pidge sighs and says, “C-can I tell you more about my family first?”

“Why?” Lance wonders warily.

“I-I just want you to understand me,” Pidge says, “and to understand me, you have to love my family as much as I do.”

Lance swallows and says, “I can’t make any promises since I met your brother.”

Pidge’s eyes widen. “You met my _brother_?” she says. “When?”

Lance stares at her. “He never told you?”

Pidge shakes her head and grabs his arms in a tight grip. “Lance, when did you see my brother?”

“I-I can’t remember the _date_ ,” he says, but when her grip on him tightens he guesses, “Sometime in the nineties, I think, towards the beginning of the decade.”

Pidge frowns. “Was that before or after we watched Star Wars?”

“After…” Lance raises an eyebrow at her. “You’re _really_ bad at time, aren’t you?”

“How many times do I have to tell you that?” Pidge, to his surprise, laughs, but she lets him go only to clutch at her face. “What did Matt tell you?”

“Well, he told me that…you shouldn’t be seeing me,” Lance explains, “and that y-you would have to be the one to collect my soul when I finally die.”

He can see Pidge’s sharp intake of breath as she slowly turns to face him again. “O-oh.”

“What do you mean, _oh_?” Lance asks.

“I-I…” Pidge sighs and stares at the ground. “That has nothing to do with why I avoided you.”

“So you _were_ avoiding me.”

Pidge nods.

“But why did you never tell me that you’d collect my soul?”

Pidge buries her face in her hands again. “Lance, it’s not something I like _thinking_ about,” she says, “so why would I want to bring it up?” She looks at him. “Being with you it-it makes me happier than almost anything else, and I never wanted to ruin that.”

Lance rests a hand on his abdomen, as if that can still the flutter in his stomach, but then he says, “It was important.”

“I know,” Pidge says, “but I don’t want to think about you dying.”

Lance touches her shoulder and carefully wonders, “Pidge, i-is _that_ why you avoided me? Because you were trying to find a way to keep me from dying?”

Pidge averts her eyes from his face, then slowly nods again. “I didn’t find anything,” she admits. “I failed.”

“But—”

“I don’t stay away from you because I _want_ to, Lance,” Pidge says, a scowl on her face, “but because I have duties that, if I don’t fulfill, either I or someone I love can suffer for it.”

Lance takes her hand and leads her to the sofa. They both sit, facing each other, and he says, “Tell me about it. Maybe I can help?”

Pidge shakes her head. “You can’t.” But then she smiles and adds, “But I…appreciate that you asked.”

Lance frowns at her. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she says. “In something like this, you’d always be found guiltless.”

“Unlike in this hearing,” Lance mutters, snorting.

Pidge chuckles and says, “I guess so, but…” Her good humor vanishes, and she looks at their joined hands. For a heart-stopping second Lance thinks she’ll pull hers away, but she doesn’t and instead says, “You need to understand something about my family - mostly about my father - first.”

“Okay…”

Pidge takes a deep breath and plows ahead, “He’s rather eccentric, and…rebellious. H-he married my mother, and angels aren’t really _allowed_ to get married.”

Lance raised an eyebrow at her. “Then why—”

“They fell in love, obviously,” Pidge says without being condescending, “but that’s something that only humans do, so the archangel considered it a fluke and let them do it.”

“That’s sweet,” Lance says, smiling, “but I don’t see what the problem is yet.”

“Well…” Pidge sighs. “It was technically an act of rebellion by them, but my father is a scientist at heart, so he wanted to push his limits. So he and my mother…found my brother - and then me - as he was being born, and they adopted him as their son.”

“Do…angels not have families either?” Lance asks, blinking at her.

“Not really in the human sense,” Pidge says, “at least not until mine, and, well…” She bites her lip. “This earned my father a warning:  if he had one more infraction like this, his illegal family would suffer the consequences.”

Lance swallows, heart heavy with dread. “What happened?”

“My father…” Pidge’s fingernails dig into his skin so hard he can’t help wincing. “He and my mother found and took me in, arguing that most human children had siblings and that my brother should have one t-too.” Her voice trembles, and she covers her mouth with her other hand. “My mother’s wings were clipped.”

She mentioned it once, the clipping of an angel’s wings, and the implication that it was as bad as death for them. And Lance can’t help the disgust rising in him.

“Wait, who orders and _watches_ for stuff like that?” Lance asks, eyes narrowed.

“Who do you think?” Pidge snaps.

Lance sucks in a breath. “Is it…God?”

Pidge stares at him. “What? No! It’s the archangel, idiot.”

“Well, excuse _me_ ,” Lance retorts, rolling his eyes. “I haven’t been to church since the early twentieth century, so forgive me for missing the finer points of theology.”

Pidge snorts, the ghost of a smile flitting across her face before disappearing. “My father…toed the line after that,” she continues, “or he’s trying to.”

“You think he’s failing?”

She nods and says, “He’s always found humans fascinating, and had an _unhealthy_ ”—she rolls her eyes—”interest in their scientific advancements.”

“I…what does this have to do with us?” Lance wonders when Pidge falls silent. “It’s not like… _we_ _’re_ getting married.” Though he speaks the words as nonchalantly as he can, his heart skips a beat - and for a second he imagines Pidge standing before him in a white dress with a veil concealing her face.

“I know,” Pidge says, her face turning pink, “but we’re still not permitted to fraternize _extensively_ with humans, or to behave too much like them. My father’s been accused of fraternizing, and the archangel’s convinced _that_ _’s_ why he’s trying to emulate them…or something like that.” She scowls, but her eyes are soft when she meets his. “Lance, I _promise_ that I see you as often and for as long as I dare; that’s all it is.”

“What happens if your wings _are_ clipped though?” Lance wonders.

“I-I’m not worried about mine as much as I am about my father’s and brother’s,” she confesses. “When my father crossed a line, my mother paid the price, so if _I_ cross a line…” She pinches her eyes shut and shudders. “It won’t be me.”

Lance tugs on her hand, and she easily slides towards him and leans into his side. His heart pounds and his mind buzzes, taking in this new information, and he’s nearly dizzy with it.

“I’ve already been warned,” Pidge confesses quietly. When he shoots her a questioning, _worried_ glance, she amends, “Not about you, but about…something else, before I met you.”

“Before I became immortal, you mean?”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding against him. “After I collected my first soul from a boy dying of a disease, I…started asking questions and looking into them. I just wanted to know why people die - and why angels don’t - but the archangel caught me and warned me to stop.”

“What are they hiding?” Lance wonders.

“I don’t know,” Pidge says. “It could be something, it could be nothing. I just wanted to _know_.”

Lance brushes her hair with his lips and squeezes her hand. “So…you’re not putting yourself or your family in danger by seeing me?”

Her grip around his hand tightens and she admits, “I am.”

Lance’s heart sinks, even more guilt - and fear - weighing it down. “But what about—”

Pidge turns to face him. “I’m _careful_ ,” she says. “I know it’s a risk, but sometimes I think it’s worth it.”

“Is it?” Lance can’t help wondering. He lets go of her hand and leans forward, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. “Pidge, I-I’d miss you, but I don’t want you endangering your family just to see me. I-I’m going to die one day anyway, but your mother’s stuck with clipped wings forever.”

Now, it feels like his own wings have been clipped, since he’s been robbed of the ability to _legally_ pilot a plane, and if Pidge leaves and never returns—

Well, Lance has been struggling with immortality and what to do with it as long as he’s had it. What’s the point if he does nothing worthwhile?

_What am I doing now that I can_ _’t fly?_

“Lance,” Pidge says, her arm slipping through his, “please look at me.”

He does, reluctantly turning his head and meeting her brown eyes.

There, he sees the same emotion he can feel swimming inside him, making his heart both light and heavy. And they sit so close, with so little space between them, that it takes all of Lance’s willpower to resist the pull of Pidge’s gravity.

“I don’t know what or when your fate is,” Pidge says so softly it’s almost a whisper, “but I do know I want to be there to see it.”

Lance exhales and finally forces himself to look away. “Will it even be worthwhile with the way my life’s been going?”

“It will be,” Pidge promises. “I can’t…guarantee it, but I think it will be.”

Lance wants to believe her, so he closes his eyes and imagines something better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promise i did some research for multiple facets of this chapter so if there's any kind of glaring error...i wouldn't mind you messaging me (off-anon) about it on [tumblr](sp4c3-0ddity.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> oof i'm traveling for the rest of August so i won't be updating this fic for at least three weeks. in any case, i'm very grateful for anyone that's read up to this point, especially if you've also left a comment, and i promise that the next chapter won't be as angsty as this one was ;)
> 
> happy season seven!!

**Author's Note:**

> as always, comments are one form of love ~~and encourage me to continue posting~~
> 
> also...the chapters will get longer from here


End file.
